Plunged Into Shadow
by Elwing-Evenstar
Summary: A young Lothlorien elf's world seems doomed to eternal darkness when he is captured by orcs of Isengard. After suffering under their hands, he escapes to find that he has changed for the worse. The line between Good and Evil is very thin indeed...
1. A Bad Beginning

**Chapter One: A Bad Beginning**

I ran.

I panted for breath, head bowed against an onslaught of icy rain and stinging shards of hail. My feet bled liberally, for my boots had worn through hours ago. A trail of blood was left in my wake, soon washed away by the torrential storm.

I was running from the Uruks.

----

_They had captured me just yesterday. I had been on a hunting trip with my family, my parents and younger sister, Elennar. We had intended to travel to Mirkwood, from our home in the Golden Wood of Lórien. We had made it only to the west bank of the Anduin River when a passing orc-horde spotted us and attacked._

_They slew my mother first. She screamed for mercy, until an arrow to her throat silenced her pleas forever. Ada was next – he yelled for my sister and me to flee, and then tried valiantly to hamper the masses of Uruk-hai that had ravaged our campsite and massacred his wife. _

_He fought them bravely, but a wayward sword-thrust was his downfall. As my sister and I raced across the plains toward Mirkwood, his dying yell rang in my ears: "Ú-tiro dan! Ú-tiro dan! Rima!" _(Don't look back! Don't look back! Run!)

_I didn't look back. If I had, I would have seen the river running red. _

_The next thing I knew, I was flat on the ground, with my face pressed against the grass and the tip of a sword at the base of my neck. _

"_Here's another two for Lord Saruman!" a low, harsh voice growled above me. I tried to turn my head to look at my sister, but I could not. But I could move my eyes, and they met my sister's terrified gaze. _

_I wished that I could tell her that everything would be all right, that we would get out of this mess somehow. But I didn't dare speak, for just then a second voice answered the first, this one a high-pitched whine._

"_Yeah? They look fit enough to serve him… now. Think they'll be strong enough once Saruman's through with 'em?"_

"_They'd better be. He doesn't want dead meat."_

"_Well, let's get 'em to the Tower and see what happens. At least if they do die, there'll be more food for us. They're young, though," it added. "I dunno, Krân. Maybe we should look 'em over a bit before we take 'em to Lord Saruman."_

"_Get 'em up, Lunk," the first voice snarled. _

_At once I felt the blade move away from my neck, and I was grabbed by a muscular hand and hoisted up onto my feet. Shaking, I gazed fearfully up at my captor, Krân. He was a tall, heavily-built orc, with blackish skin, stained yellow teeth and dark, malicious eyes. _

_His companion, Lunk, was slightly shorter, and a great deal skinnier. His complexion was somewhere between grey and green, and his eyes were a dull brownish-yellow. Lunk stared intently at me as I stood in silence, too frightened to do anything to defend myself._

"_Yeah, this one's pretty fit. Dunno about the other one, though. Ah, doesn't matter. We'll take 'em to see Lord Saruman, like you said. Come on, you," he hissed at me, seizing my wrist and yanking me forcefully forward. I heard Elennar give a little shriek as Krân grabbed her. _

"_Where are you taking us?" I cried, struggling vainly to prise the slender, gnarled fingers from my arm. _

"_You'll see soon enough," Lunk told me, grinning wickedly. _

_I fell silent; numbing fear made my body feel like ice. But still I attempted to escape, to no avail. Finally there was a white-hot burst of pain across my skull as something hard slammed into the back of my head, and I plunged into unconsciousness._

_When I awoke, I found myself in a dark, dungeon-like chamber, with hundreds of huge, terrifying instruments lining the black stone walls. There were swords and knives bigger than a man, with blades sharper than razors; fearsome maces and clubs, tipped with metal spikes like iron icicles. _

_All of them were stained with dark splatters of what could be nothing but blood. The room had a reek of old blood and sweat, of orcs and filth and smoke. It was the stench of death._

_Gazing around in horror, my eyes fell upon my sister, who was crouched in a corner, sobbing. She turned her tear-streaked face to me, and whispered, "Are they going to kill us, Isilden?"_

_I could not reply, for fear had constricted my throat, but I reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, to reassure her that hope was not lost. _

_But my fingertips had no sooner brushed her arm than the room's single door burst open to admit half-a-dozen Uruks of varying sizes and shapes. Three of them grabbed me, and the others reached for my sister. With a yell, I seized the nearest instrument that was light enough for me to hold and use – a broken metal spike – and impaled the first Uruk upon it. _

_That blow excited the others, who all began screaming at once in a foul language I could not understand. Brandishing my makeshift spear, I stabbed and slashed at random, amid deafening howls and screeches of pain. _

_Three of the remaining five Uruks fell to the floor, stone dead. The other two threatened to slaughter my defenceless sister, but I would not surrender. Blood, black as tar, spurted across the floor in a sticky spray._

_Suddenly the doors, which had slammed shut, flew open again. But this time it was not orcs who entered the stinking chamber. It was a tall, bearded man, shrouded in a dirty cloak which had probably once been white. In his right hand he clutched a forked staff that was as black as ebony, save for the gleaming white stone set at its top, between the four spikes. _

_The Uruks temporarily halted their cruelty and turned to look tentatively up at the White Wizard of Orthanc, who was striding purposefully toward them. Then Saruman spoke, in a deep voice that was colder than ice, and that reverberated through the air like a death knell._

"_Unhand them," he ordered._

_One of the two Uruks protested feebly, in a quavery voice._

"_We was only havin' a bit o' fun with 'em, Lord," he whined. "I weren't gonna kill 'er, but that 'un's slew four of us with just a spike!" He pointed to me with a crooked forefinger. Saruman glared at me with eyes as grey as wintry seas. I shuddered beneath his cruel gaze. _

"_Let me see them," the Wizard commanded, turning back to the Uruk. "Leave us."_

_Nodding mutely, the Uruks slunk sullenly out of the chamber. I knelt next to Elennar and shushed her gently, as Saruman's voice rang harshly out again._

"_So, you killed my servants, did you, elf?"_

_I stared silently up, too afraid to reply._

"_Answer me!" the man thundered._

_I nodded hurriedly. "Y- yes, sir."_

_Saruman's eyes narrowed as he continued._

"_And did you think you would get away with it? That you could do so without any punishment at all? Did you?"_

_I didn't know what else to say, so I repeated my last reply: "Yes, sir."_

"_Hmmm…" The Wizard stood in silence for a moment, and then gestured to Elennar. "And who might this be?"_

_I gulped. "M- my little sister, sir." _

"_Indeed. And would you be willing to do anything to save your sister's life? If I were to, say, re-summon those orcs and let them have their way with her, what would you do?"_

"_I'd kill them, and then kill you!"_

_Saruman laughed coldly; it was a terrible sound. "Such bravery," he crooned. "Such a fiery spirit you have. You would be very useful to me."_

_I glanced uncertainly up at him. "How?" I asked nervously._

_Saruman chuckled again, no less mirthlessly than before. "I could use someone like you; someone who has a temper, an anger. Are you angry?"_

_My eyes narrowed in a sudden, red-hot burst of fury. "Yes!"_

"_Excellent," said Saruman appreciatively. "Yes, you will indeed be a valuable asset. Come with me now."_

_Elennar stared at me, horror in her eyes. I stepped back, apprehensive, but Saruman grabbed my wrist and half-dragged me out of the room and down a tall flight of stairs, deeper and deeper into the earth. At the bottom of the stairs, a long hallway stretched out before us, with a single door of black iron at the far end. _

_Saruman pushed open the heavy door, and a great wave of the same putrid odor I had encountered in the upstairs chamber hit me with full force. I reeled back in disgust, but Saruman shoved me none-too-gently forth. _

_I gasped in horror at what I beheld. The room was packed with Uruks, lining the walls of the huge chamber. At the very middle of the room was a gaping hole that appeared to be full of some sick, filthy muck. Saruman walked calmly to the edge of it, pushing me ahead of him, so that I had no choice but to go forward. _

"_Look," he said, pointing down into the slimy pit. I tilted my head downward, gazing at what appeared to be a large mound in the center of the gooey stuff. I couldn't tear my eyes away as a figure rose slowly from the depths of the pool. _

_It was an Uruk, dripping with ooze, eyes gleaming madly in its head. As I stumbled back in terror, it lumbered toward me, clawed hands outstretched. _

_I backed away until my back was against Saruman's flowing robe. He placed his hand on my shoulders, and his long, talon-like fingernails pricked my skin. I winced and tried to pull away, but he only gripped me tighter. _

_I squirmed and struggled in his vicelike grasp. With a final, desperate effort I pulled away, and then suddenly whirled around and tripped Saruman, sending him sprawling headfirst into the sludge that filled the pit. He thrashed around like a man in his death throes, shrieking for the Uruks to help him. I took the opportunity to flee for my life._

"_Get him!" Saruman screeched, pointing madly toward me. "Kill that elf!"_

_My heart pounded in my chest as I ducked through the door, which slammed itself shut behind me with an echoing BOOM. I raced up the hallway and the stairs, back toward the torture chamber. _

_When I reached the door, I found to my despair that it was locked tightly, and I could not force it from the outside. My sister was trapped within, alone and helpless. _

_Pounding footsteps suddenly reached my ears, coming from further up the passage, opposite the staircase. The stairs were the only way I could escape. But I couldn't leave Elennar. _

_The footsteps sounded ever nearer as I pondered my fate. The Uruks' shadows began to dance on the walls as they approached, and I quickly made up my mind._

"_Im naer, Elennar," _(I'm sorry, Elennar)_ I whispered. "Ettulathon ten'le ae 'erin." _(I will return for you if I can.)_ My heart threatened to break at the thought of leaving her behind, awaiting her inevitable fate, but there was nothing I could do for her. _

_I turned around and ran as fast as my legs would carry me; I didn't know where I was going, but it didn't matter. All I wanted to do was get as far away from Saruman and the Uruks as possible. I kept on running… _

----

I kept on running.

Whether I stumbled over something, or whether I was deliberately knocked down, I never knew. But all of a sudden I was flat on my back, with the icy rain falling heavily onto my upturned features as I stared up into a face I hoped I would never see again – Krân.


	2. The Tower of Terror

**Chapter Two: The Tower of Terror**

I gasped in horror as I stared up at the Uruk, who grinned crookedly, showing many missing teeth.

"Gotcha!" he laughed evilly. "Thought you could escape us, did ya? Huh?" I cringed in disgust as the Uruk spat in my face. "Well, yer not gettin' away this time!"

He hauled me upright and bound a coarse rope tightly around my wrists, with about a foot left hanging to make a crude lead. This he held in his big hand as he dragged me along, grumbling under his breath.

"We'll teach yer… show yer what it's like to be one of us… we'll make you pay." He glared down at me, and I remained mute. My mind was racing with half-formed ideas and foolish plans for escape. All of them were senseless, futile.

"Good to see yer comin' along nice'n quietly," Krân told me. "Most o' the ones we catch try to kill us an' run away. They're not nearly as co-operative as you."

_Co-operative!_ I thought, inwardly seething. _Never. I'm biding my time, you stupid lump. I'll get free somehow. And then who will be the one to pay? Not me._

Krân glared down at me as I stumbled along beside him. His dark eyes were just as spiteful as they'd been the last time I had seen him. I stared icily back at him, loathing him and all of his kind, the twisted, barbarian monsters known as Orcs or Uruk-hai. I hated them all.

But little did I know what horrors awaited me once I was back among them…

----

We reached Orthanc just as the sky was beginning to clear, a velvety black night showing behind the storm clouds. With its silent serenity, it seemed to mock the maelstrom of emotions seething within me. Fury, despair, terror, and dozens of others boiled in my mind and heart as I limped along behind my captor. I vowed I would get free, even if it cost me my life.

And Elennar… How could I have forgotten her, my beloved sister? If she was still alive, I would liberate her, too.

_If_ she was alive… The thought tore viciously at my heart. What if she wasn't alive? What if Saruman had let the Uruks slaughter her, as he had threatened to do? I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her.

Krân stormed up the stone steps, dragging me beside him as he thumped along the dark corridor, and down toward the room that Saruman had taken me to the day before.

"In!" he barked, releasing his hold on the rope and shoving me forward. I fell hard, landing on my knees and my bound wrists. Wincing in pain, I stared up at the hundreds of cruel, merciless faces that lined the walls of the chamber. All of them were Uruk-hai, save for one at the back, a human.

The White Wizard.

Krân grinned at his master as he walked forward. Saruman's face remained hard and impassive.

"Got him," the Uruk said smugly, placing a none-too-gentle hand upon my shoulder. Saruman merely nodded. He strode up to me, looking me up and down. I knew better than to try and move.

Snatching Krân's sword from his hand, Saruman swiftly sliced through my restraints. I gasped and sobbed as blood rushed back to my hands, after being dammed up for so long.

Shakily I stood up, facing the man, with Krân standing next to me. I said nothing, nor did my companions. For a while we both stood in silence, gazing stonily at each other, loathing each other.

Then Saruman grabbed my wrist, causing me to gasp in agony as his clawed nails pierced my already scarred, bleeding skin. To suppress a scream, I bit my lower lip so hard that it began to bleed as well.

But alas, that pain was nothing compared to what I would shortly endure.

Saruman regarded me icily for another few moments before turning to his minions. He spoke not a word, but nodded once.

The Uruks leered wickedly at me as I cowered back, terrified. Slowly, silently they moved forth, tightening the circle around myself, Saruman and Krân, closing in on me. The Wizard stepped back so that he was among his servants, and in the echoing silence, he snapped his fingers.

It all happened in a split-second. Krân grabbed me around the waist and lifted me up as I kicked and screamed in panic; all of the Uruks pulled out various barbaric weapons, and my captor hurled me into the pit of filth.

I hit the sludge back-first, splattering muck everywhere as I sunk beneath the surface. I came up with a gasp, but just then the butt end of a spear struck me forcefully, and I only managed to get a quick gulp of air into my lungs before I submerged again.

The ooze filled my world. It pressed against my whole body with a cold, constant pressure. I was only dimly aware of the blunt ends of spear handles and sword hilts thudding into me, knocking me ever deeper.

Blind, mute, deaf and nearly numb, I could do nothing to free myself from this world of darkness and filth. And the Uruks were all using sharper objects now: metal-tipped maces, knife- and sword-blades, spearheads and the occasional boot.

They were cutting me, killing me, drowning me in sludge. I couldn't feel it, but my own blood was slowly mingling with the dark mud. I couldn't hold my breath any longer, and gooey bubbles escaped my lips as the thick muck poured in.

_This is it,_ I thought. _I'm dead. It's all over. I'm so sorry, Elennar… _

But then, it was over. The Uruks gradually relented, and I rose slowly up. My head finally broke the surface, and I coughed up slime while choking down mouthfuls of the hot, reeking air of the filthy chamber. Then I stood, hoping my legs would support me. Thankfully, they did.

I stared around at my surroundings, which had not changed much. The Uruks had retreated to the walls, and only Saruman stood at the edge of the slimy pit. He nodded in satisfaction, and spoke to me in a clear, cold voice: "Who is your master?"

I didn't answer, knowing that naming Lord Celeborn, the Lord of Lorien whom my family had served faithfully, would condemn me. But I would never swear allegiance to Saruman.

"Maybe he's lost his voice, Lord," a timid voice suggested from somewhere near the back of the room. "It's happened before…"

"Silence!" Saruman yelled at the unseen speaker, who fell silent immediately. Turning back toward me, he demanded, "Is that it? Have my minions stabbed your voice away?"

Relief flooded through my body at the prospect of a plausible alibi. I managed to keep the emotion from showing in my face as I nodded mutely. Saruman frowned slightly at me, but did not comment for a short while.

"Very well," he rapped briskly, after a few moments of silence. "Get out of my sight. Now!"

I didn't hesitate, but fled willingly, up the stairs and the long corridor at their top. I had only one purpose in mind, now that I was free. That purpose was to rescue my little sister.

At last I reached the room in which I had last seen Elennar imprisoned. Carefully I tried to push the door open. It creaked in protest under the pressure of my hand, but moved grudgingly inward. Trembling at the thought of what I might find inside, I stepped over the threshold…

And there she was. A thin, shivering wretch, huddled in a corner beneath a blood-stained battleaxe. Her soft blonde hair, once lustrous, perfectly combed and teasingly twisted into shimmering golden braids of tangible sunlight, now hung in oily, unkempt tangles about her narrow shoulders, which shook incessantly as she sobbed silently.

Sharp pangs of sorrow and guilt made my heart twinge, but at least she was alive. She hadn't been murdered. I breathed a sigh of relief, and Elennar jerked suddenly and turned. When she spotted me, her deep blue eyes grew wide in horror, and she tried without success to press her body further back in the corner.

"D- don't hurt me!" she wailed. "P- please, I haven't d- done anything!"

I stepped back from my sister, shocked by her words. I didn't understand. Why would I ever want to hurt Elennar? I loved her more than anything else on earth.

"Elennar, it's me!" I cried desperately. "Don't you recognize me? I'm Isilden, your brother! I-"

I broke off with a horrified gasp, for the terrible voice that had emanated from my throat was not my own, but a harsh, strangely accented rasp. I staggered back a few paces, as the realization of my fate struck me with all the force of a battering-ram.

I was an Uruk.

_This can't be happening! It can't!_ Over and over I repeated those words to myself, even as I turned away from my sister and dashed back down the hallway, hot tears mixing with the perspiration that was streaming down my face from the exertion of running, and washing away the dried slime that was caked onto my features.

I would have kept running straight out of the tower and as far away as possible, but all of a sudden I was caught fast by a strong hand. Shaking, I turned to find myself gazing into Lunk's mud-colour eyes.

"There you are," he said curtly, dragging me alongside him as he strode down the hall, in the same direction I was going. "Lord Saruman says I gotta getcha down to the armoury and the weaponry – you're gonna join the horde."

_The horde? _I thought, dread flooding through me like icy water. _I'm supposed to fight for these monsters? Like the monster I am?_ Fortunately, I remembered my earlier excuse for my disloyalty to Saruman, and kept my mouth shut tightly.

"Lord Saruman says you're a mute," Lunk was now saying, as we turned down a hallway leading off of the one toward the Room of Filth, as I called it. "I dunno about that. Pretty uncommon, y'know, dumb Uruks. Ah, well. Guess you'll be what they call the 'strong silent type,' won'tcha?" He grinned lopsidedly at his own joke. I just nodded.

Lunk guided me through two different rooms, where I was fitted with a crude suit of armor a size too large, and armed with a long sword, which had a keen blade with one jagged edge.

We soon reached another door, no less dark or formidable than any of the others I had seen. Lunk pushed it slowly open with a wrinkled hand and led me inside…


	3. Flight and Fight

**Chapter Three: Flight and Fight**

A sickening sight met my unready eyes. Thousands of Orcs and Uruk-hai were crammed in the chamber, nearly every one armed to the teeth with fearsome weapons. All of them were moving slowly toward another door at the far end of the room.

The apparent leader, a tall, bulky Uruk with a grotesquely mutilated face that resembled a large, pinkish glob of lumpy mashed potatoes set sloppily on top of a thick neck, growled out orders from between twisted, slobbery lips.

"Get going, you lot!" he snarled, as the orcs all shoved one another indiscriminately to get to the far door first. "Move out!"

He turned then as Lunk cleared his throat with a little wet cough. "Oh, it's you. Got another recruit there, Lunk?"

Lunk nodded to the ugly Uruk. "Yes sir. He just arrived this evenin'. Didn't speak a word after he came outta the pit; not even to swear allegiance. Bit funny, that." He frowned briefly over at me before turning back to the commander. "He's to join up with your bunch, sir."

"Course he is," the commander grunted irritably. "Why else would you bring 'im here?" The Uruk's beady eyes, which were almost completely hidden beneath baggy folds of skin, regarded me with an air of baleful contempt and disapproval. "He'll do. He can be a tracker."

The commander looked me in the eye, and muttered in a low voice something I barely heard. All I caught of it was, "Find the Halflings."

Jerking his head, the commander motioned for me to join the mass of Uruks which were flooding out of the room. I stood frozen for a moment, then nodded and inched my way out of the room alongside the last few stragglers. I didn't know then that the events to come would turn my already drastically changed lifestyle upside-down.

----

Trudging along behind my "allies", I noted the direction of our path. We were heading east and a bit south, across the grassy plains of Rohan. We marched in the direction of the palely dawning sun that peeked shyly at us over the crest of a large hill in the distance. The Uruks were relatively silent in that they did not talk much, but the dull, monotonous sound of their thumping footfalls was hard on my ears.

"Oi, you!" a voice growled in my ear as a fist thumped my back. "Get moving, Snaga!"

I winced as my back throbbed painfully, but I noted what the Uruk had called me.

Snaga… so that was my name now. The Black Speech term for slave. The last thing I wanted to be. Loathing seethed within me, silently boiling. I forced it down, marching on without a word.

After awhile I noticed that the wiry Orc next to me was muttering under his breath in a low hiss; I strained my ears and caught snatches of his words of disgust.

"… Find the Halflings, huh. Bring 'em back alive an' unharmed… Wish we were allowed to kill 'em, or at least torture 'em. What's Lord Saruman want with 'em, I wonder…? I know better than to ask, though. Stupid questions'll only get you your head lopped off…"

And so on it went. The horde kept their easterly course as the sun climbed higher in the rapidly brightening sky. It turned from midnight black to shades of crimson. Blood had been shed that night.

I began mentally formatting another plan for escape. This one would not be as rash and hasty as the previous ones, and it would be successful. All I needed was the opportunity to carry it out.

My chance came a few hours later, when about a dozen trackers split off from the main group, and headed in a more southeast direction. If I could only get away from the masses, I might stand a better chance of escaping. I breathed a soft sigh of relief as I moved further and further from the horde. My plan was working – so far.

A sudden brainwave hit me. Glancing around, I noticed that most of my fellow trackers were branching out into pairs, and some were alone. I took this as a perfect opportunity to flee.

Swiftly I darted into a thick clump of trees nearby, and carefully buried my sword. Then I waited, not daring to breathe, for the other Uruks to run off, which they did eventually.

Once I was satisfied that I was alone, I gazed warily over my shoulder as I emerged from the scrub. The place was deserted.

Or so I thought…

A moment later, I was surprised to hear footsteps approaching. I ducked back into the bushes as the sound came closer and closer, and a pair of figures came into view, one ahead of the other. One was a man, the other, a hobbit. A Halfling – one of the very creatures I had been ordered to find.

I didn't want them to be subject to the cruelty of Saruman, as I had. I made a silent vow to protect them if I possibly could. I hid in the trees and listened silently to their conversation:

"None of us should wander alone. You least of all," the man was saying. "So much depends on you... Frodo? I know why you seek solitude. You suffer; I see it day by day. Are you sure you do not suffer needlessly? There are other ways, Frodo, other paths that we might take."

"I know what you would say," the hobbit replied, "and it would seem like wisdom, but for the warning in my heart."

"Warning?" the man inquired. "Against what?"

He began to move toward the hobbit, who backed away. The man continued to speak as he advanced.

"We're all afraid, Frodo, but to let that fear drive us to destroy what hope we have. Don't you see, it's madness."

"There is no other way," Frodo the hobbit said calmly.

"I ask only for the strength to defend my people!" the man cried. Then his voice took on a sinister tone. "If you would but lend me the Ring…"

"No!" Frodo cried, backing away further.

"Why do you recoil? I am no thief!" the man insisted.

"You are not yourself!"

"What chance do you think you have?" the man shouted. "They will find you. They will take the Ring. And you will beg for death before the end!"

Silently Frodo turned and strode away from his companion.

"You fool!" the man screeched. "It is not yours save by unhappy chance!" As I watched in horror, he walked toward the retreating hobbit, who glanced fearfully over his shoulder, then broke into a run. The man leapt at him, knocking then both to the ground.

"Give it to me!" he yelled. "Give me the Ring!"

"NO!" Frodo screamed. Frantically he squirmed about, trying to escape. Then he held up something I couldn't quite see, moved it toward his finger — and disappeared!

I stared in shock as the man, who was now seemingly fighting with nothing, flinched as if he had been struck. He shouted angrily to open air.

"I see your mind!" he shrieked. "You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us! You go to your death! And the death of us all! Curse you! Curse you and all the Halflings!"

Then he stopped, his breathing ragged, and whispered sadly, "Frodo? Frodo. What have I done? Please, Frodo..."

But there was no reply. The man cried out again, pleadingly. "Frodo, I'm sorry! Frodo!"

I gazed at the man, who scrambled to his feet and dashed away. I darted after him, wanting to find out where he was going. Careful to keep out of sight, I zigzagged across the plains, as there were hardly any trees to hide behind as I went farther and farther.

I hastily concealed myself as well as I could when the hobbit reappeared out of thin air, and stared around him warily. He and I both glanced up as another man walked toward the hobbit; not the one who had fought Frodo, but another one. He had a kingly face and kind, dark eyes that seemed as keen as the blade of the sword that he carried in his belt.

"Frodo?" he said, his deep voice full of concern. "What is it?"

"It has taken Boromir," the hobbit panted breathlessly.

"Where is the Ring?" the man demanded.

Frodo backed away from him. "S- stay away!"

"Frodo! I swore to protect you," the man told him.

"Can you protect me from yourself?" the hobbit cried. He held out his hand to the man and, from my hiding place, I saw something small and gold gleaming in Frodo's palm: the One Ring.

"Would you destroy it?" Frodo continued, staring up at his friend.

The man knelt before the hobbit, closing Frodo's fingers over the Ring.

"I would have gone with you to the end," he said softly and sadly, "into the very fires of Mordor."

"I know," Frodo replied. "Look after the others, especially Sam. He won't understand."

The man opened his mouth to speak, and in that moment I heard, faint but unmistakeable, the sound of Orc feet tramping across the land, coming nearer. The man's eyes widened.

"Go, Frodo," he whispered desperately. "Run. Run!"

Frodo nodded, sprinting past his friend – in my direction. I jerked away as he raced toward me, barely missing me. As I waited for my heart to calm down, I saw the Orc-horde come into view. It was the very one I had just minutes ago been a part of.

The man swiftly drew his sword and prepared to fight them as they surged around him like a wave. Some came toward me; I couldn't avoid them, and they flowed around me as well, trapping me in the tight mass of bodies.

I couldn't breathe; they were pressing so tightly against me, and their stench was nauseating. I choked and nearly threw up. Then I heard the leader shout.

"Find the Halflings! Find the Halflings!"

"Elendil!" the man roared, charging into the fray. He slashed at the Uruks, slaying three or four with every sweep of his keen blade.

Then two new figures appeared on the scene: an elf and a dwarf. They fought the Orcs alongside the man, using arrows and a battleaxe to cut down their foes.

"Aragorn, go!" the elf yelled as he loosed an arrow into the throat of an attacking Orc. "We'll hold them off! Get out of here!"

The Uruks advanced relentlessly, forcing the three friends to retreat. They pushed me along with them, against my will and desire. I would never escape now, I thought. I'd end up being slain as an enemy. What was one less Uruk to the Free Peoples? One less bit of worthless, vile scum, that was what.

My train of thought was broken by the clear sound of a horn, ringing through the air.

"The horn of Gondor," said the elf.

"Boromir!" cried the man called Aragorn.

The two fought their way through the horde, while I tried to fight my way out of it. Both of our attempts were successful. The man and the elf struggled toward Boromir, whom I recognized instantly as the man who had fought Frodo for the Ring.

The man was fighting the Uruks bravely, but then an Orc archer notched an arrow to his bow, aimed it at Boromir and drew back the string…

I didn't want to see anyone hurt, no matter who they were. I lunged at the archer just as he loosed his arrow. The force of the impact knocked us both to the ground and left me breathless, but unharmed. The arrow flew past the man's ear.

The Orc, who was lying beneath me, thrashed and writhed as if in its death throes, crying out in a muffled growl of a voice. Its face was pressed firmly against the ground, and I was lying on top of its torso and head, squeezing the air from its lungs without even realizing it. Eventually the Uruk went limp. I had suffocated it.

I shakily got to my feet, but was immediately forced to duck as Aragorn's sword was swung in my direction. The man slashed at the remaining Uruks through a hail of elf-arrows.

At last only a few, including myself, were left standing. The others were quickly dispatched by arrow and sword. There was only me and my adversaries.

Aragorn lunged at me, sword outstretched and aimed for my throat. I staggered back and fell to the ground, helpless. The tip of the blade was inches from my neck and getting closer. I let out a scream; a single word, the first word I could think of in my terrified state.

"_Dartho!_" (Wait!)


	4. The Unwilling Uruk

**Chapter Four: The Unwilling Uruk**

The sword's tip was actually touching my throat when Aragorn halted its deadly descent and stared at me. His dark eyes, which I now saw were a glinting, steely grey, widened in utter shock.

"What did you say?" he gasped in obvious disbelief.

I was so relieved at having not been slain that I didn't reply for a minute. Then all at once I jerked back to reality and repeated, "_Dartho._" (Wait.)

Aragorn frowned at me for a moment, bewilderment written across his face. He glanced up as a concerned voice sounded behind him.

"Aragorn? _Mani naa ta?_" (What is it?)

Aragorn turned toward the person who had spoken; it was the elf I had seen before, now kneeling next to his comrade.

"I'm not sure, Legolas," the man replied. "This Uruk–"

"Uruk?" Legolas cried, cutting him suddenly off. He glared at me, then at his friend. "Why didn't you kill it?" he demanded sharply.

The elf's right hand moved down to his belt, where two long knives were sheathed. Aragorn's hand quickly darted out to stay Legolas'.

"If you would let me explain," he said calmly, "I'll tell you why this Uruk isn't Wargs' meat."

Legolas slowly withdrew his hand and folded his arms disapprovingly across his chest. "So explain."

"First of all," Aragorn began patiently, "did you not hear what this Uruk shouted? He said 'dartho' – in Sindarin, 'wait'."

"I know the tongue of my own people," Legolas snapped angrily, his eyes flashing. "What's your point?"

"Exactly how many times have you heard an Orc or Uruk speak in the language of the Eldar, Legolas?" the man wanted to know.

Legolas was evidently confused by the rather odd question. He stammered a reply, his eyebrows knitting together slightly.

"Well, none–"

"Exactly," said Aragorn, nodding pointedly. "None, until now. That's why I didn't immediately separate this Uruk from his head. I have reason to believe that we are not dealing with an ordinary minion of Saruman. All other Uruks speak in the Black Speech of Mordor, and this one did not. All other Uruks would have tried to kill me on sight, but this one did not."

"Only because you tried to kill it first," Legolas muttered under his breath. "That doesn't prove anything."

Aragorn frowned at his friend, and the elf fell grudgingly silent, glaring spitefully down at me.

"As I was saying," the man continued coolly, "all other Uruks would never use the Elven tongues, and this one just did, as you already know. Perhaps this Uruk, one out of tens of millions that roam the earth, has not been completely consumed by the Dark Powers. He could be valuable to us."

With that last sentence I was forcibly reminded of Saruman. His voice rang horribly in my mind, unbidden and undesired. _"Yes, you will indeed be a valuable asset…"_

I shuddered beneath the sword that was still held to my throat. Aragorn noticed my tremors, and warily moved the blade away from my neck, just slightly. It was still pointed at me, but it was no longer pricking my skin.

I relaxed a little, extremely glad that I was being spared, at least for the moment. These people were merciful, unlike the White Wizard and his host of twisted servants.

Legolas inquired to his friend: "How?"

I shivered again as the man opened his mouth to answer him. But he was interrupted once again, this time by a low, gruff voice.

"Aragorn? Legolas?"

A dwarf came into my sight over Legolas' shoulder. He wore a helmet, which obscured most of his face that was not already covered by a reddish beard and moustache, both neatly braided. A broad, double-edged axe was held in one gloved hand. Dark eyes, glinting like coals beneath bushy brows, widened in surprise as the dwarf stared down at me.

His fist clenched on the axe's handle as he moved forward, but Legolas put out his arm to halt him. Aragorn gave the dwarf a calm, yet stern glance. His grey eyes roved from the dwarf to me and back again before he spoke.

"Guard him, Gimli," he instructed. "Legolas, _rado i Berian. Tirathon na Boromir._" (Find the Hobbits. I will see to Boromir.)

Legolas nodded, turned and sprinted away on silent feet while Aragorn sheathed his sword. He was about to depart as well, but I had finally gathered my courage enough to speak up.

"Excuse me, sir–"

Aragorn glared down at me, his expression like stone, hard and inexpressive.

"Yes?" he said coldly.

"I do have a name, sir," I informed him, cowering under the man's unsmiling gaze. He did not speak.

"It's Isilden," I continued nervously. "At least, it was before I became what I am. I don't want to hurt anybody. I was trying to escape the horde, but they caught up to me. I–"

"You led them to us."

"N- no, I just wanted to esc—" I halted in mid-word as the man raised his hand to silence me.

"I don't mean deliberately," he told me, while I gazed up at him in surprise. "In fleeing the horde, you unintentionally guided them toward us. If you had done that deliberately, then I would likely slay you where you lie."

"B- b- but I didn't!" I cried desperately, stumbling over the words in fear.

"I know you didn't," Aragorn said calmly, his face losing some of its callousness. "That's why I didn't kill you. I know you're not a follower of the White Wizard."

"How did you know?" I felt compelled to ask.

"For one thing, you were the only one in the horde who had no weapon; for another, no Uruk in my recollection has eyes as distinctly Elven as yours."

"What do you mean?" I inquired, totally bewildered. "What's Elven about my eyes? I mean, just look at me, at what I am…"

"You haven't seen yourself lately, have you?" Aragorn asked me, a slight smile on his face now.

I had to admit that I hadn't. I frowned up at the man as he explained.

"Your eyes are blue, Isilden," he said. "They're the shade of sapphires. No Uruk I have ever seen had blue eyes. And I can assure you, I have gotten quite close to several Uruks in my time – closer than I would have liked."

I was silent as Aragorn's words registered in my mind. Then I gawped up at him. "You mean—"

"Yes," Aragorn replied. "Yours is indeed a very unusual case, Isilden. You still have some Elven blood in you. I don't know what could have blocked the full effect of Saruman's evil in your heart, but something did. There's no mistaking it."

I thought hard about that statement. What could possibly have prevented me from becoming a mindless minion of darkness?

It took only a moment for me to remember my sister, and the way I had vowed to rescue her at any cost. That must have been it, I reasoned. My love for my sister was stronger than the evil of the White Wizard. I passed this suggestion on to Aragorn, who nodded slowly.

"Yes, that could be it," he agreed. "Love is a very powerful thing. Tell me," he said calmly, "did your sister share your fate?"

I flinched as a sharp jolt of fear made my heart skip. What if she, too, was an Uruk? She could have been transformed after I had fled. I couldn't bear the thought of it, and tears came to my eyes.

Aragorn seemed to notice my pain, for his face immediately became sympathetic. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"That's all right," I replied, a slight break in my voice. "I don't really know for sure if she's – well, you know… one of them." I drew a breath and continued, "Right after I was transformed, I went straight upstairs to find her. She was all right then. I mean, she wasn't really badly hurt or anything, and she was still an elf. She didn't recognize me at all, though; she thought I was one of the others. I tried to tell her, but she just kept begging me not to hurt her. I didn't know what I was yet.

"Then it hit me, and I couldn't take it. I ran out of there as fast as I could, but then one of the guards caught me, and took me to join the horde. I managed to get away from them, and then I saw your friends. Boromir and Frodo, I think their names were. I hid when they came closer to me. They were talking about how Frodo was suffering from something. I stayed where I was, listening, while the man Boromir started to get mad, and Frodo backed away from him.

"Then Boromir started saying stuff about a Ring, and how Frodo would be better off to give it to him. Frodo walked away, and Boromir jumped on him from behind. They fought for awhile, then Frodo put something on his finger and disappeared. I think he must have run away, because Boromir began yelling about how Frodo would take the Ring to Sauron and that he was going to his death. He was screaming curses for a bit before he got a grip on himself. I don't know where Frodo went."

"I met him just after that," Aragorn told me. "He said that the Ring had taken Boromir. The orc-horde came soon after that. And you say they 'caught up with you?' How is that?"

"Well, they just kind of came around me and pushed me into their ranks. I had no choice; they were pressing against me and forcing me to move with them. One of the archers had his bow out and was aiming an arrow at Boromir.

"I jumped on it as quick as I could, and we both fell to the ground. I suffocated it while I was catching my breath from the fall; I was lying right on top of it. The arrow missed Boromir's ear by just a few inches. It would have hit him in the heart if I hadn't gotten to the Uruk first. That's when you and Legolas came and started to fight the Uruks. You know the rest, I'm sure."

Aragorn nodded. "Yes. What happened to Boromir? Did he stay where he was, or did he flee?"

"I didn't see – you came at me right after that. I think you'd better see if he's all right."

The man nodded once again, rising and turning away. Gimli still stood nearby, uncertain of what to do. At a nod from Aragorn he lowered his axe to his side. I remained where I was, turning my head as Legolas emerged from the trees. He was followed by four shaken-looking figures.

I recognized Frodo immediately, but not his three companions. They were all male hobbits, wearing brightly-coloured clothing and worried expressions. They stared distrustfully down at me, as though afraid I would suddenly leap up and rip out their throats at any moment. Legolas gave them all reassuring glances.

The smallest of the four halflings put his hand to a dagger that was fastened to his belt, but another hobbit, this one wearing a bright yellow vest over a white shirt, placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

"Easy, Pip," he murmured. "Pip" obediently left his weapon alone.

"Where is Aragorn?" Legolas asked me.

"Looking after Boromir, like he said he would," I answered.

The elf nodded. "Good."

A moment later Aragorn returned, with a quite uneasy-looking Boromir by his side. I couldn't blame him, I thought. Really, how would anyone react to being shot at by an Uruk, and missed by an inch? Not to mention that another Uruk had been the one to intervene.

"… And just after that," Boromir was saying, "one of them aimed an arrow at me, but another one jumped on it from behind. If it hadn't…"

"You would have been slain," said Aragorn calmly. "I know."

Boromir nodded, gazing suspiciously around him, in case there were more archers lurking in the trees. There were none of those – but there was me.

Boromir's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when they caught sight of me. He let out a gasp of alarm, and pointed a shaking forefinger down at me.

"Th- that's him – I mean, it!" he cried fearfully. "That's the Uruk, the one that killed the one who tried to kill me!"

Aragorn nodded again. "Yes, Boromir, I know."

Boromir glanced at his friend, a perplexed look on his face. "You know him – it?"

"Yes, Boromir," the man replied. "And he's not an Uruk. Not quite."

"What do you mean, 'not quite'?" Boromir asked, now even more confused. "How can something be 'not quite' an Uruk? I thought there could only be just Uruks."

"So did I," said Aragorn. "Until I met Isilden, that is."

"Who's Isilden?" Boromir inquired.

Aragorn gestured down to me. Boromir turned back to me, and I gazed up at him. From the look that appeared on his face for a moment, he didn't know how to react, and neither did I. I sat up a little, smiling, hoping to shatter this man's bleak view of me as one of the evil Uruks – I hated to call them "my kind" – as I had earlier with Aragorn and Legolas.

Obviously somewhat heartened, Boromir took a few tentative steps toward me. I remained where I was for a short while, not quite sure whether I should rise or not. After a few moments' consideration I slowly stood up and approached him, my right hand outstretched in a gesture of peace.

Smiling slightly now, though still rather nervous, the man grasped my hand, and we shook without a word. We stood in silence for another few moments, both now staring at the ground. I felt distinctly ill at ease.

"Well," said Boromir, more to my knees than my face. "Uh… well, I suppose I should, um…" He glanced up and looked me calmly in the eye. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I replied. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Boromir answered, looking much more confident now.

"Good," I said, relieved. "I'm glad to know you're not hurt. I mean, that arrow missed you by an inch, probably less. If it had been a bit to the right, who knows what would have…"

"I know what would have happened," Boromir replied. "I would have been a feast for some Warg."

"Or something worse," I added with a slight shudder.

There was a moment of awkward silence between us, broken by Aragorn's voice in my ear. "Isilden, may I speak with you for a moment?"

I turned. "Yes, Aragorn? What is it?" I asked.

"Come with me."


	5. A Voice and a Vision

**Chapter Five: A Voice and a Vision**

The man beckoned for me to follow him, which I did, slightly confused. He led me to a more secluded spot away from his comrades, where he gazed intently at me as he spoke.

"I was wondering," he began, "whether or not you would like to become a part of our forces. I'm sure the others won't mind, and it's the least we can do to repay you for saving Boromir today. How about it, _mellon nin?_" (my friend?)

Smiling at being called a friend, I considered his offer, and my options. If I joined them, wouldn't I endanger them because of my appearance? Not many people besides Aragorn and his friends would accept the fact that an Uruk was travelling peacefully among humans, hobbits, an elf and a dwarf. They would most likely slay me first and ask questions afterward.

Aragorn nodded pensively when I reminded him of this. After a few moments' thought he rose, and bade me to wait for him. I stood where I was, watching as he moved out of my line of sight. A few minutes later he returned bearing a clean tunic, breeches and cloak over one arm, which he handed to me.

"Take off your armor," he told me. "Put these on. The least we can do is to conceal your appearance, short of changing it completely."

I nodded, frowning down at the outfit in my hands. "But I'm a lot smaller than you," I said uncertainly. "Don't you think these will be a bit big?"

The man shrugged. "They'll do for now."

I obliged self-consciously. Aragorn's clothes sagged on my thin frame, but I found that by wrapping the belt a few times around my waist, I could at least prevent the breeches from falling off. The cloak fell past my ankles by a good few inches.

I gave him a "How do I look?" glance, and he nodded, satisfied. Then I gazed down at my hands, which were gnarled and green-skinned like the rest of my body. How would I hide that?

Aragorn seemed to notice my apprehension. "I'll be back in a moment," he said, and headed away again. He returned this time with a pair of leather gloves, which I donned gratefully. The man smiled, then turned as Legolas' voice rang out behind him.

"Aragorn!"

"What is it?" Aragorn demanded, turning to his friend, who was rushing toward him with Gimli at his side.

"Frodo and Sam," the elf panted. "They've taken one of the boats and crossed the river. They're already at the eastern shore."

The man said nothing, but gazed silently across the Anduin at the tiny figures of the two hobbits. Legolas frowned, and spoke again. "Aragorn?"

Aragorn only sighed, and Legolas immediately understood. "You mean not to follow them."

"Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands," Aragorn said simply.

"Then it has all been in vain," Gimli murmured. "The Fellowship has failed."

Aragorn turned to him, smiling sadly, and placed a hand on his friends' shoulders. "Not if we hold true to each other," he whispered.

Both elf and dwarf smiled with renewed hope. But a look of remembrance crossed the man's face, and he glanced up at Legolas, inquiring, "Where is Boromir?"

"With Merry and Pippin," the elf replied. "They're all safe."

Aragorn sighed in relief. "Good." Then he turned back to me, and asked, "Well, Isilden? Will you come with us?"

I nodded. "Wherever you go," I answered solemnly. "Lead on."

Aragorn smiled. "Then come."

----

The six remaining members of the original Fellowship, along with me, kept a course toward the citadel of Minas Tirith, at Boromir's request. We travelled almost due east across Emyn Muil, gradually turning south as we neared the marshes of Nindalf. The journey was long, but we kept a steady pace. Nothing much happened to hinder us, and we counted ourselves fortunate.

We camped that night at the peak of Amon Lhaw, the Hill of Hearing, at the southern borders of Emyn Muil. We could see for miles over the Nindalf to the south and east, at least by day. The night was totally black, without a hint of starlight or moonlight, and the winds that blew over the mountain were ice cold.

We didn't dare light a fire, for fear of attracting Orcs, Wargs, or anything that might attack us. But that put us at risk for attacks from the Nazgûl because, as Aragorn wisely stated, the wraiths' greatest fear was fire. We were inevitably torn between being assaulted by Orcs, and by Ringwraiths.

I lay awake that evening, listening to the wind howling, and the rasping snores of some of my companions, though mainly Gimli. There were other nightly noises too, but I ignored them for the most part. One thing disturbed me greatly, however. It was Boromir's voice, mumbling in some fitful dream.

"…It could have been mine… should have been mine… Blast that Halfling! It could help us; it could help Gondor… my people… The Ring could… defeat Sauron, if only… if only I…"

I remained silent, shocked by what I was hearing. My only consolation was that the Ring was far from us, beyond Boromir's greedy reach. The man's strange ramblings continued as I listened, transfixed by mute fascination and dread.

"…It should be mine… I should have taken it. Frodo, curse him… took it to Mordor… to Sauron, to our doom… I would have kept it safe, kept it from Him… would have used it against him… but… no, it… it can't. Then… why? Why should we bother? He can't just reach out and take it for himself…"

As I watched, eyes widened in awe, Boromir paused, frowned unconsciously and muttered, "No, his Orcs, they would… they would come and take it to him. But the hobbits… the little ones, they're going there anyway… who's to say they won't betray us once they get there? Who can tell what goes on in their heads? Sauron can, Sauron sees all. He knows what they plan to do. He'll kill them. The little ones… poor little… little hobbits…"

I shuddered at Boromir's words. He seemed to be arguing with himself, torn between honouring the Fellowship and succumbing to the constant call of the Ring. I had a feeling that the madness in him had not all faded away.

My eyes slowly glazed over, and I slipped into a dream…

----

_I was back in Orthanc, an elf again, being led by the White Wizard into the Room of Filth. My doom at hand, I struggled vainly to escape, but it was no use. Saruman was laughing as Krân lifted me high and flung me bodily into the pit of slime. Emerging at last, I glared loathingly at the wizard as he asked me, "Whom do you serve?"_

Celeborn,_ my mind raged_. I serve Lord Celeborn of Lothlòrien, you vile bit of Orc dung._ But I remained stonily silent, and Saruman stared icily back. "Get out of my sight."_

_I ducked away, racing up the stairs to the torture chamber, where my sister was imprisoned. Elennar, my dear sister… I slipped silently into the room, and was met by her voice, a desperate plea: "Don't hurt me! Please!"_

_Staring down at her, I stretched my hand out toward her, reassuring her softly. "Don't be afraid, Elennar…" _

_But once again I cringed at my harsh voice; an Uruk's voice, coming from an Uruk's throat in an Uruk's body. Elennar sobbed and recoiled from me, and I turned to leave, but was met by Saruman and Lunk, who dragged me forcibly down the hallway to the armoury. I struggled vainly in their grasp, crying out my sister's name. Elennar, Elennar!_

----

"Elennar!" I screamed as I awoke. Gasping for air, I noticed Legolas gazing intently at me, apparently having been wakened by my shout.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned. "What's wrong?"

As I recovered my breath, I brushed clinging tears from my eyes as I replied, "It was nothing, Legolas. I'm all right. It was just a dream."

"What was it about?" the elf inquired. "It must have been terrible, for you to wake up screaming. Who is Elennar?"

"She's my sister," I answered, feeling my eyes prickling uncomfortably and knowing I was about to cry again. I blinked the rebellious drops back as I continued, "She was captured the same time as I was. She didn't escape, though. As far as I know, she's still inside Orthanc, waiting for me to come and rescue her. But I can't."

"Did she… you know…" Legolas shifted slightly, looking rather uneasy. "Was she transformed as well?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I didn't hang around long enough to see what happened to her. I hope she isn't one of them. I don't think I could bear it if she was killed in battle with the Uruks, like some kind of monster…" I began to weep softly at the thought. Legolas moved over to me and placed a hand upon my shoulder.

"Think of it this way," he told me kindly. "If she was transformed as you were, perhaps the effect would be the same. Who is to say that her love for you would not protect her, as did your love for her? And, better still, she may not have been transformed at all."

"But she could be dead," I said, tears streaking my face. "And it would be my fault, for not protecting her. I'm her brother, it was my responsibility. I failed her."

"It's not your fault, Isilden," Legolas replied, gently wiping my face with his sleeve. "It's no-one's fault, but Saruman's. He is to blame for all of this. Well," the elf added softly, "perhaps not all. Sauron is greater even than he, even though he has no body. His Eye pierces cloud, shadow, earth and flesh. He is ever watchful, always giving orders to the White Wizard and his minions. And they are never for good."

"Well, what can you expect?" I asked. "He is the Dark Lord, after all. Why would he care about others?"

"He doesn't," said Legolas grimly.

"Exactly," I nodded.

Legolas sighed. "It's late, Isilden. You should get back to sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow." He lay back down, his eyes glazing over as he fell asleep again. "Sleep well," he yawned.

I nodded, lying down also. "Good night," I murmured, closing my eyes. I was grateful that Boromir had stopped talking in his sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about what he had said. The Ring, it seemed, was still trying to corrupt him. I prayed that it would not.

And most of all, I prayed for my sister and her survival. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to her. That was my last thought as sleep gently broke over me, drawing me down into its comforting oblivion.


	6. White Wizard, White City

**Chapter Six: White Wizard, White City**

Morning came bright and clear, stirring me from a deep slumber. I wondered vaguely how I could have slept after what I had heard the previous night, but I was distracted by Legolas' voice calling me. "Hurry it up, Isilden! Everyone else is ready. We're waiting for you."

Nodding hurriedly, I scrambled upright and joined my six comrades. Aragorn handed me an apple, which I accepted gratefully. I hadn't eaten for quite a while, more than two days. The man smiled at me as I devoured my breakfast ravenously. "Hungry, are you?"

"Starving," I answered, swallowing a juicy mouthful and wiping my lips. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," he replied. "And you?"

I hesitated, wondering whether or not to reveal to Aragorn what I had overheard just hours ago. I looked around nervously; Boromir was talking with Legolas, and seemed not to be paying attention to anything else.

Taking a deep breath, I told my friend what I could remember of Boromir's lustful, angry, fearful words. I related how Boromir had repeated his words of the previous day, when he had been fighting with Frodo for the Ring: "It should have been mine…"

The man's face grew troubled as I went on to explain Boromir's thoughts of anger at Frodo's betrayal, and then of sympathy for "the little ones", as he had called them. Aragorn cast a sidelong glance at his kinsman before turning back to me. "Did you hear anything else?"

"No," I replied, shaking my head. "That's all."

"I see." Aragorn's eyes flicked over to Boromir once again before he nodded to me again. "Come on. We do not stop until nightfall."

"What about breakfast?" Pippin's voice piped up from beside me.

"We've already had it," the man replied.

"We've had one, yes," the hobbit said, grinning, "but what about second breakfast?"

There was no reply from Aragorn. Merry leaned over to his friend, murmuring in his ear, "I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip."

Pippin grew worried at this statement. "What about elevenses?" he asked. "Luncheon? Afternoon tea… dinner… supper? D'you think he knows about them?"

"I wouldn't count on it," Merry replied gravely.

Pippin glanced questioningly at him, and frowned as an apple landed in his friend's hands. Merry handed the fruit to his young companion, just as another apple struck Pippin on the forehead. I couldn't suppress a laugh.

We walked on, down the Hill of Hearing and across the Nindalf. I avoided eye contact with Boromir whenever possible, but was forced to talk with him as he asked me about my first night as a member of the Fellowship. I replied that it was a lot better than other recent nights, which was true. But I didn't bring up the topic of the man's unconscious mumblings.

As Aragorn had instructed, we didn't stop for a rest until dusk fell. It was too soggy in the marshes to build a fire, so we ate a cold supper of lembas bread and whatever else we could find in our packs. We slept on the driest patches of land we each could find; it was every man (or elf, dwarf, hobbit or Uruk) for himself.

Later on that night, I was roused from a light sleep by Legolas and Aragorn's voices whispering nearby. It seemed to be important, but they didn't wake the rest of their comrades. I pretended to sleep as I listened.

"…You are sure of this?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes," Legolas replied gravely. "_Lye aphadar aen. Nim Istar tulea._" (We are being followed. The White Wizard comes.)

"Saruman?" Aragorn whispered. I snapped awake at the name, my heart thumping in my chest. Legolas nodded.

"_Manke_?" (Where?) the Ranger asked.

The elf pointed toward the west. Aragorn reached for his sword, which was in his belt where he always kept it. Legolas picked up his bow and a quiver of arrows. They both rose, and then Aragorn murmured, "Wait. Do you think we should tell Isilden?"

"I don't know," Legolas replied. "It would probably frighten him to know that his worst enemy is so near, and he might also want revenge."

Aragorn nodded. "We should leave him. He's better off not knowing."

"Right," the elf nodded. "Let's go."

----

As my two companions slipped away, I got up silently, but hesitated before following them. What if Saruman wanted vengeance on me for my treachery? What if he wanted to show me Elennar's mangled corpse?

A sob caught in my throat at the thought. Then I remembered Legolas' words about me: "…he might also want revenge."

I wanted revenge, all right. There was almost nothing I wanted more, except to see my sister safe again. With that, I braced myself for what I would face and made to leave. But suddenly a gruff whisper made me freeze in my tracks.

"Just where do you think you're off to?"

"N- nowhere," I lied hurriedly, glancing over my shoulder at Gimli. "I can't sleep. I'm just going for a walk."

"Right," the dwarf snorted. "A walk after Aragorn and Legolas, to find the White Wizard. Hah."

"Well…" I had to admit defeat. "Yes, actually; I was going to follow them. I want vengeance for what Saruman did to me, and for my sister. I'll no longer rest in peace until I have it."

"Brave words," said Gimli admiringly. "But I'm coming with you, laddie." He moved to my side. "Which way did they go?"

"West," I replied. "Come on. Don't wake any of the others."

Gimli nodded, closing his fingers firmly around the handle of his broad axe. "Shall we?"

I nodded, my eyes narrowing. "Yes. I've got a score to settle with that pile of Orc dung they call a wizard."

Aragorn and Legolas were not far ahead, but even before we had taken a few steps I heard the elf hiss, "He heard us, Aragorn. Here he comes now, and Gimli as well. It was bound to happen."

"You're right," Aragorn sighed. He half-turned toward us, calling, "Well, come on then."

Gimli and I quickly caught up to our companions, moving like shadows across the marshes. Legolas glanced down at me as we made our way west.

"Aren't you scared, Isilden? Saruman is second only to Sauron himself. You should be terrified of him; think of what he did to you, what he might have done to Elennar..."

"I know," I replied icily. "I know I _should_ be frightened, but I'm just too angry to feel the fear. All I want right now is revenge; cold, sweet revenge."

"Revenge can be sweet," the elf informed me. "But often it turns sour, when the one wanting vengeance is the one who pays the toll. Are you sure you want to risk it?"

"Of course I do!" I cried, my eyes blazing with hatred and rage. "I'd do anything for my sister. She's the whole world to me; I'd willingly die for her, if it came to that."

"Don't make too many rash promises, Isilden," Aragorn warned. "They may turn against you in the end."

"I don't care," I snarled. "I just want to see Saruman dead, and be the first to spit on his grave."

"Don't we all," Gimli muttered beside me. "I wouldn't mind taking his head off myself, now you bring it up. And I'll wager Legolas is just itching to use him for target practise." He glanced up at the elf, whose lips formed a tiny, furtive smile. Aragorn frowned at him, then suddenly halted and put a finger to his lips. "Shh…"

"What is it?" I whispered. "Is it him?"

One bleak nod confirmed my thoughts, as well as tightening my resolve. Legolas gazed down at me and held something out. "Here. If you want revenge, you'll need this."

I accepted the object, one of his long hunting knives. "Thanks. I'll make good use of this."

Legolas nodded, his hand tightening around his bow. "He's here somewhere. I can feel it."

"Do not let him speak," Aragorn whispered. "He will cast a spell on us." He slowly drew his sword and held it at the ready. "We must be quick."

I gripped Legolas' knife firmly as I advanced with my comrades. "Come out, Saruman," I muttered under my breath. "I'm ready for you."

There seemed to be no reply from the darkness. But Aragorn raised his blade high and lunged, yelling, "Now!"

Legolas instantly released an arrow from his bow as Gimli swung his axe. Both weapons were swiftly deflected in a burst of white light, startling their carriers. At the same time, Aragorn yelled in pain as his sword glowed red-hot. He dropped it as if it were a poisonous serpent. There was only the White Wizard and I.

"All right, you," I snarled, advancing upon the source of the glow. "Prepare to die, Saruman!" _This is for you, Elennar!_ I thought as I leapt. "AAAAHHHHH!"

I was actually in midair when some powerful force blasted me backward, knocking me to the ground and forcing the breath from my lungs. The knife flew from my fingers and zinged away into the gloom as a deep, resonant voice emanated from the center of the Wizard's bright radiance.

"You're a bit too late for that, I'm afraid. I've done that already; quite recently, in fact."

"Who are you?" Aragorn shouted. "Show yourself!"

The light faded, and I gasped at the figure it revealed…

A tall man stood before me, clad all in shining white, like the sun gleaming upon new snow. A staff was held in his right hand, but not the black staff of Saruman. It was white, with an intricately-carved top. The hand that held it wore a ring on its finger, a gold band set with a blood-red ruby.

The man's eyes were pale blue, like a clear summer sky. He was smiling calmly at us, and I heard Aragorn gasp in shock. "It can't be!"

"Forgive me!" Legolas cried, bowing low. "I mistook you for Saruman."

"I am Saruman," the wizard replied. "Or rather, Saruman as he should have been."

"But – you fell!" Aragorn cried in disbelief. "I saw you!"

"Through fire and water," the wizard nodded. "On the lowest dungeon, on the highest peak I fought him, the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside."

My three companions stared at the man as he continued to speak, his eyes roving over each of them in turn. "Darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time. The stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as a life age of the earth. But it was not the end; I felt life in me again. I've been sent back, until my task is done."

Aragorn suddenly seemed to understand. "Gandalf?" he cried.

Gandalf nodded. "Yes. That is what they used to call me… Gandalf the Grey. That was my name."

Legolas nodded, and the wizard said, "I am Gandalf the White, and I come back to you now at the turn of the tide." Then his gaze dropped down to me, and he held out his hand. "Here, let me help you."

Still slightly winded by my fall, I allowed Gandalf to pull me to my feet. Gimli was still gawping mutely at the wizard as I found Legolas' knife and returned it to the elf.

"Come," said Aragorn, turning to leave and looking at us over his shoulder. "We should tell the others of this."

Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli and I all nodded, and followed him silently back to our campsite.


	7. The Steward and His Son

**Chapter Seven: White Wizard, White City**

Gandalf's return came as a pleasant surprise to the rest of the Fellowship. Many joyful greetings were exchanged, mingling with lots of laughter. The hobbits seemed to be the happiest of all, though Boromir's relief and cheer were evident in his voice as he spoke to the wizard, smiling at Merry and Pippin's antics.

I stood a little apart from the rest, watching them longingly. If only I could have this kind of a reunion with my sister. But it would never happen, not with me looking like an Uruk. Appearances could be deceiving; she hadn't known me the first time, so why would she recognize me if we ever met again?

Gradually my senses were diverted to a conversation between Gandalf and Aragorn that seemed to be important, as well as concerning me. I tried to eavesdrop inconspicuously.

"…I don't blame Isilden for mistaking you for Saruman," Aragorn was saying. "If you ask him, perhaps he will tell you his story; it's not my place to say."

Gandalf nodded. "But I do find it strange; an Uruk, wanting to aid the forces of good against Evil? What could have shielded him against Saruman's wrath?"

"Again, it wouldn't be right for me to tell you that," Aragorn replied. "But what is the reason for your return, Gandalf?"

"War has come to Rohan," the wizard told him gravely. "We must ride to Edoras with all speed. I suggest we divide our forces. Four of us should journey to Rohan, while the other four continue to Minas Tirith."

Aragorn nodded. "You should come to Rohan, Gandalf. Legolas, Gimli and I can go with you, while Boromir, Isilden and the hobbits head south to the White City. When should we leave?"

"Dawn," Gandalf replied. "But for now, we should all get some sleep. Our minds and bodies will be better suited for travelling once we are rested."

Aragorn nodded, glancing around him briefly before settling down. I was sure his gaze had passed over me for a moment. I lay down on the driest patch of land I could find that was not already occupied, and fell almost at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.

----

The sun rose bright and warm, and I woke to soft birdsong in my ears and a gentle breeze playing across my face. That immediately put me in a good mood, for a moment at least. The grim looks on my friends' faces were what punctured the swelling bubble of my cheeriness.

Not even a simple "Good morning" was exchanged; everyone was utterly silent. Even Gimli, with his sharp dwarfish wit, was unsettlingly solemn. Merry and Pippin were not much different.

My three companions and I journeyed south in silence, not stopping for a rest until midday. We were barely halfway across the marshes. As we ate a simple lunch, Boromir spoke for the first time in a long while, saying that we would leave the Nindalf by the day after tomorrow, and reach Minas Tirith the day after that.

Our water supply was running low; all we had left was enough for two days. The hobbits wandered off in search of fresh water, and whatever else they could find that was edible. They returned shortly with full water-bottles and armfuls of wild vegetables, mostly mushrooms. It was a pleasant change from lembas.

After three days of solid travel, a great white citadel loomed before us, glimmering in the blinding sunlight. Unconsciously I pulled my hood over my face, to shield my eyes from its glare as I stared in shock.

Boromir, delighted by the sight of it, pulled out a curved hunting horn and blew a great blast. The echoes trembled in the air for minutes afterward.

"That is to alert my people that I have returned," the man informed me. "Come – my father will be waiting."

"Who is your father?" I asked as we made our way swiftly toward the great city, across the wide Fields of Pelennor.

"My father is the Steward of Gondor," Boromir replied. "He rules our country well. We need no king to defend us; no Heir of Isildur to keep Mordor at bay. Our people are safe under my father's rule."

The gate of the citadel creaked open before us, and we entered Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor. Almost before we crossed the threshold a voice cried out in joy, "Boromir! Boromir! Lord Denethor's son has returned!"

Boromir smiled. Merry, Pippin and I gazed all around us, marvelling at the mighty citadel's grandeur. Minas Tirith, the City of Kings. It was certainly fit for kings, I thought. It must have taken hundreds of years to hew from the mountain, all of snow-white marble.

All through the citadel, people bowed as we passed. We made our way through the seven levels of the city, to a great courtyard at the top. A tall tree stood in the middle of the courtyard, its blossoms as ivory-white as its bark. A man stood beside it, an imposing figure with broad shoulders and greyed shoulder-length hair.

By his stance I could tell that he must be the Steward, Lord Denethor; he stood erect, like a king or a warrior would. But he was not the king, only the caretaker of the throne.

Boromir called out joyfully to him as we approached. "Father! Father!" he cried.

"Boromir?" said the man, turning. "Boromir! My son, you've returned!"

"Father," replied Boromir fondly, embracing the man. "It's good to be home."

"Boromir?" called another voice from nearby. "Is that you?"

A young man, younger than Boromir, was descending a flight of steps to the courtyard. He wore a brown tunic emblazoned with a pattern of the White Tree, Gondor's emblem. His brown eyes lit up with delight when he caught sight of his brother. "Boromir!"

"Faramir," Boromir sighed, embracing the man. "Good to see you, brother."

"And you," Faramir replied, grinning. "Father and I were worried you might not return."

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Boromir laughed. "And if it hadn't been for Isilden, my good friend, I might not be." He turned to me, smiling. "Come forward, Isilden. Be recognized as the one who saved my life."

"Saved your life?" Denethor repeated disbelievingly. "When? How?"

"About a week ago," said Boromir. "My companions and I were attacked by a rabble of Orcs from Isengard. One of them, an archer, was aiming for me when Isilden leapt on it and slew it. If he hadn't, I would surely have been slain."

"Well," said the Steward, his grey eyes riveted upon me, "this deed shall not pass unrewarded. Isilden, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord," I replied, remembering my manners. "That is my name."

Denethor nodded. His eyes now showed the faintest hint of disapproval. "Why have you covered your face, Isilden?" he inquired. "The day is warm, it would be unwise. Come, remove your cloak. Let me see you."

I swallowed nervously; this was what I had been dreading. I chose my next words carefully: "With all due respect, my lord, I would rather not."

"Come now, let me look at you," said the Steward patiently. "I wish to see the face of my son's rescuer."

"My lord," I replied uneasily, "I beg your pardon. I dare not remove my cloak, for my own sake."

"Then will you simply lower your hood?" Denethor asked me, stepping forward a few paces. "Surely that would do no harm."

"It is all one, sire," I said, my voice cracking anxiously.

"I insist," said Denethor, advancing further still, and extending his hand. "Just for a moment…?"

I backed away, protesting urgently. "N- no – sire, please–!"

But it was too late; Denethor's hand reached out, grasped the hood of my cloak and pulled it back from my face. His eyes widened in shock, and he let out a horrified cry. "Aaahhh!"

The man's right hand plunged into his robe, and emerged clutching the leather-bound hilt of a long, naked sword. I staggered back as he swung it at me, but another figure leapt between us, crying, "Father, no!"

There was a sharp clash of steel on steel as the other man parried the Steward's blade; it was Boromir. "Get back!" he hissed at me.

I turned and tried to flee, but stumbled over the trailing hem of my borrowed cloak. I landed hard on the cold stone of the courtyard, moaning in pain. Merry and Pippin rushed over to help me.

"Are you all right?" the younger hobbit asked in concern, as he and his friend helped me to my feet.

I nodded, shaking slightly. "I – I think so," I stammered.

Meanwhile, Denethor was sputtering in rage at his son, his face a blotchy purplish hue. He was trembling so much he could hardly get his words out.

"How dare you, Boromir? How dare you bring that – that—" he pointed a quivering forefinger at me, spitting out his words, "—that THING into my citadel? That orc! You should have slain it!"

"No," said Boromir defensively. "He is not evil. He was taken by evil, and evil tried to use him for its purposes, but evil does not rule him, and so I cannot kill him."

"_I_ can!" cried Denethor, angrily pushing his son's blade aside.

"Not while I'm here," Boromir replied calmly. "He saved my life, Father! And know this: Isilden is neither orc nor Uruk."

"Then what is he?" Denethor snarled.

"He is a hero," replied Boromir simply. "Tell me, Father, did you happen to notice the color of his eyes?"

"I am not blind, Boromir!" the Steward snapped. "They are as black as his heart. Even a fool could have told you that."

"Wrong!" Boromir declared. "They're blue!"

"What?" Denethor gasped. "Impossible! No orc or Uruk has blue eyes!"

"Exactly!" Boromir cried triumphantly. "That proves it. He is neither orc nor Uruk."

"Well, I've never seen an elf that looked like _that_!" Denethor spat. "And don't tell me 'he has a good heart' or any rubbish like that. I refuse to believe it!"

"Then I won't," said Boromir, "but nor will I deny that it's true. If you need more proof, just keep watching. If this does not convince you, then I don't know what will." He turned to me, calling my name. "Come forward, Isilden."

I hesitated. "What are you going to do?" I asked fearfully.

"Don't worry," the man reassured me. "You will not be harmed." He glared at his father as he added, "I'll make sure of that."

Swallowing, I moved tentatively to Boromir's side. He nodded to his father, and then to me. "Say something in Elvish," he told me.

I glanced up at him, confused. "_Man anirach pedin_?" (What do you want me to say?) I asked.

Boromir smiled broadly. "There! You see, Father? If he were an orc or an Uruk, he couldn't possibly have spoken in the Elven tongue! They all detest that language, besides not remembering how to speak it!"

I saw a vein throbbing ominously in Denethor's temple, and inched back nervously. Boromir placed a hand upon my shoulder. "Wait," he murmured.

I waited, watching mutely as the color receded gradually from the Steward's face. His eyes were as hard as stone as he glowered at the two of us. Merry and Pippin lingered uncertainly behind us, not knowing what to do.

At long last Denethor sheathed his sword, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly before he spoke.

"All right, Boromir," he sighed heavily. "I will not touch him, nor will any of my men. I will leave instructions with the guards not to harm him in any way."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Boromir looked equally gratified. But the Steward spoke again, raising a cautionary finger.

"_But_," he said warningly, "I am only doing this because of the debt between you two. Should Isilden violate this oath, he shall pay dearly for it. Is that clear?"

Boromir and I both nodded. "Inescapably so, sir," I stammered.

"Good." Denethor's steely eyes never lost their venom. "Now get out of my sight."

Boromir, the two hobbits and I all turned to leave, but Denethor called his son back. "Boromir, come with me. I wish to speak with you, alone."

The man patted my shoulder reassuringly as he followed his father away. Merry and Pippin both gave me "What now?" looks. I shrugged, and decided to make myself comfortable. This was likely going to be a _long_ discussion.


	8. Recollection and Revelry

**Chapter Eight: Recollection and Revelry**

Boromir returned about half an hour later, a relieved smile upon his face. I rose from where I had been sitting, leaning against the White Tree alongside the hobbits, and we all addressed him hopefully. "Well?"

"It's been decided," he told me, his grin widening. "Isilden, you can stay, provided that you obey the laws of Gondor at all times, and especially in front of my father. You do _not_ want to get on his bad side again, believe me."

I sighed elatedly. "Thank you so much!" I cried. "I won't let you down, I swear!"

"I believe you," Boromir laughed. "Also, we're going to have to get you some clothes that actually fit. You can't wear those–" he indicated my borrowed outfit "–forever, no matter how you may grow into them."

"But I can't just get rid of them!" I protested. "They belong to Aragorn—"

"_Aragorn?_" demanded a harsh voice behind me. I whirled around, to find myself gazing up at Denethor again. He spoke in the same angry, disbelieving tone. "Did you say Aragorn?"

"Y- yes," I stammered, backing away anxiously and cowering under the Steward's withering stare. _What did I do now?_ I thought. _Surely Aragorn isn't a bad person? He spared my life, didn't he?_ I gulped as Denethor continued, "Aragorn, son of Arathorn? Is that his name?"

"I don't know," I replied. "He never mentioned his father's name, not to me anyway. Is something wrong?"

Denethor drew another deep breath. "In a manner of speaking," he answered. "If this Aragorn you mentioned is indeed the one I am thinking of, then he is the Heir of Isildur, and the throne I now occupy is rightfully his. He is the last of his house, and the next King of Gondor."

"Well, what's so bad about that, sire?" I asked. "Isn't it a good thing that you know who your King is?"

Denethor glared down at me, and I squirmed uncomfortably. _Oh, no,_ I thought. _I've let Boromir down already._ But Boromir didn't reprimand me for what I had said. He stayed silent as his father spoke yet again.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he began, "is a Ranger from the northern lands. His blood is that of the ancient realm of Numénor, and I thought that it had all been spent long ago. Where did you meet this man?" he demanded.

"At the plains of Emyn Muil," I replied, "about five days ago. We were heading here."

"Did he come with you?"

"No – he went to Rohan with the rest of our group. There were four of them in all – Aragorn, Legolas the elf, Gimli the dwarf, and Gandalf the wizard."

"I see." Denethor nodded slowly. "Well, Isilden, now I would like to discuss this matter with you. Follow me."

I nodded, moving alongside the man as he turned and strode swiftly away, his cloak billowing behind him as he went. I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder at Boromir as I hurried away from him. His calm, hopeful expression did nothing to settle my nerves.

----

Denethor led me through a pair of tall double doors and into a long hall, with stone statues of previous Kings lining the walls. A throne stood at the far end of the chamber. Denethor seated himself in it, and I noticed that he sat slightly hunched over. I remained silent, waiting for him to speak, which he did after a long, pensive pause.

"So," he said slowly. "You are an Uruk, and yet not one. You look like one, sound like one, and heaven forbid…" he wrinkled his nose ever-so-slightly, "smell like one as well. Yet you have compassion, courtesy, and enough sense and intellect to use the Elven tongues where none other of your kind would. My son is also indebted to you. It seems that the latter attributes outweigh the former, does it not?"

"It seems so, sir," I replied.

Denethor nodded. "And there are a few points I missed. You wear the clothing of a Gondorian, though I can't say it fits you well. But I suppose that can't be helped. Also… could you come a little closer? I wish to see your eyes, and determine if they truly are blue, as Boromir said earlier."

I stepped self-consciously forward, and Denethor gazed intently at my face. His own eyes widened slightly, and he leaned back, murmuring in disbelief, "My son was right. They _are_ blue; as blue as sapphires. Amazing…" He stared at me in quiet awe. "How is this possible?"

"I think I know," I told him. "But it's rather a long story, sire."

"Well, tell it," the Steward urged me. "I wish to hear more of this phenomenon, and its origin."

I nodded, and launched into the tale. I told Denethor everything, not missing a single detail: the hunting trip, the band of Orcs, and my parent's murders, followed by how my sister's and my escape attempt ended in capture.

Then, despite the horrible lump that began clotting my throat, I related our captivity in Isengard, and my brief fight with the Orcs in the torture chamber. Next was the arrival of Saruman, my transformation, and my jointure with the orc-horde. Denethor was still through it all.

I recounted my second narrow escape from the Uruks, and the discovery of Boromir and Frodo, as well as their fight over the Ring, ending in Frodo's flight. Here the Steward held up his hand, and I halted to hear what he had to say.

"Did you ever see this Ring?" he wanted to know.

"Not clearly," I admitted. "I only glimpsed it a couple of times."

Denethor nodded slowly, a slight frown of disapproval creasing his brow. "Continue."

I did, relating Boromir's pursuit of his friend, and my pursuit of him, followed by the arrival of Aragorn. Denethor's lips tightened, but he said nothing. I went on to explain how the orc-horde had returned and attacked, and the timely arrival of Legolas and Gimli.

I shuddered inwardly at the memory of Aragorn lunging at me, his sword extended, aiming to kill. I repeated my first word to him, my scream of "Dartho!" that had saved my life by a fraction of an inch.

I concluded my narrative with Aragorn's act of mercy, Boromir's debt to me, Frodo and Sam's departure and my union with the Fellowship. I told him of the discovery of Gandalf the White, the division of our forces, and the journey to the White City. "You know the rest, sire," were my final words.

"Yes," said Denethor with a nod, leaning forward a little. "Now, could you tell me-?"

He broke off suddenly as the doors burst open with a loud crash, and an urgent voice cried out, "My lord! My lord – we're under attack!"

Denethor stood up, repeating, "Under attack? How so?"

The guard drew a breath and replied, "There's an Orc in the citadel, sir! It followed your son inside when he returned. It was in disguise, too – it wore a Gondorian's clothes. I saw it come in here, sir, and – sire?"

Denethor held up his hand to silence the guard as he spoke. "Go back to your post, Madril," he said calmly. "The city is quite safe."

"B- but sire!" cried Madril. "The orc, it's—" I turned then, and Madril let out a yell.

"Look out, my lord!" he cried, drawing his sword. I stepped back, and Denethor strode forward, addressing the man in level tones.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

By the look on Madril's face, he obviously thought the Steward was losing his mind. But he replied in a rather odd voice, "No, sire. I was mistaken."

Denethor nodded. "Do me a favour, Madril," he said. "Go and inform the other guards that Isilden is not to be harmed."

"Isilden, sir? Who is that?" Madril wondered.

Denethor gestured to me and answered, "He is."

"The orc has a name?" said Madril, incredulous.

"Yes," Denethor replied, placing a hand upon my shoulder. "But he is neither orc nor Uruk, no matter how he resembles one. He is a hero who holds the debt of my son, and my own gratitude. And one more thing," he added, as Madril bowed and turned to go. "Send word to my people that there is to be a feast in the Great Hall today, in honour of my son's rescuer."

"Yes, sire," Madril nodded. "When will it begin, sire?"

"At noon," Denethor replied. "Now go; you are dismissed."

Madril bowed again and departed. Denethor remained standing as he spoke again.

"Well, that's him taken care of," he murmured, "and now it's your turn. Come with me."

----

I followed Denethor to a large, steamy chamber, filled with large tubs of hot water which were obviously intended for bathing in. Each was separated from the others by a large curtain; they were all drawn back at the moment, as no-one was using them.

"You may bathe here," Denethor told me, indicating the nearest tub. "Towels are here…" He indicated several fluffy towels, neatly folded, set near the tub, "…and I believe you will find soap somewhere; ah yes, just here."

At the sight of the small, sweet-smelling oblong bars, I gave a sigh of elation. "_Soap…_"

Denethor laughed. "While you bathe, I will tell the tailors to make some clothes for you that fit better than the ones you're wearing now." He circled me slowly, looking me up and down and murmuring to himself. "Mm-hmm, mm-hm. Very good. I'll see you later, then. Bring your old clothes to me once you're finished with them."

"Yes, sire," I nodded. "Thank you for everything."

Denethor smiled. "You are most welcome," he replied, and left the chamber.

Pulling the curtain shut around the tub, I climbed out of Aragorn's travel-weathered clothes and sank into the steamy water with a deep sigh of content. This was paradise.

I reached for a bar of soap, revelling in the feeling and fragrance of the lilac-scented lather that foamed up as I cleansed myself thoroughly. Only once was I disturbed, by Denethor checking up on me. He probably thought I had drowned, I laughed to myself later on. But it was good of him to be concerned, I reasoned. He had brought me my new clothes then as well.

Once I was sufficiently scrubbed, I climbed carefully out of the tub, dried off with a luxuriously soft towel and donned my new garments. I had a pair of breeches, and a white tunic embroidered in silver thread with Gondor's emblem. There was also a pair of brown leather boots that just came past my ankles.

Slipping the boots on, I wiggled my toes experimentally and found that they were extremely comfortable, and not several sizes too large, as Aragorn's had been on me. I picked up my too-large, borrowed clothing and set off to meet the Steward.


	9. Celebration and Swordplay

**Chapter Nine: Celebration and Swordplay**

We met back in the throne room, where Denethor inspected me. He seemed pleased with the outcome as well. "They fit," he smiled. "Yes, quite well, I'd say. It was difficult to choose a color, as not much goes well with green…" I looked down self-consciously, and the man added, "But I thought white would look fine, and I was right."

"Thank you, sire," I said, pleased.

Denethor glanced upward, frowning; the sun was approaching its zenith. "We'd best get down to the Great Hall," he told me. "I wouldn't want you to miss your feast."

"_My_ feast?" I frowned.

Denethor laughed. "Of course! You are the guest of honour. The feast can't commence without you, Isilden. Now, leave those old clothes here and come along."

Nodding, I followed the Steward to a great chamber furnished with hundreds of long tables arranged in rows, with one overlooking the rest. Boromir, Faramir, Merry and Pippin were seated there already, along with several other important-looking men and women. Denethor stood between his sons, and I sat at Boromir's right.

Then Denethor addressed the Gondorians seated at the long tables, his strong voice ringing out through the hall like a brazen bell. "My people! Today is a glorious day for our great city. Among us now is a hero…"

I tuned out the Steward's voice as he repeated my story to the people of Minas Tirith. I had told it before in greater detail than Denethor was now relating it. He was skimming over many details, including my sister.

My sister… _ai_, how could I have forgotten her? My beloved Elennar. What was she going through? I was here, surrounded by noble men and women, and she was trapped in a dark, dank tower, with no-one to care for her. She was so young… how would she survive? If she wasn't already dead of grief or agony…

I drifted back to reality as Denethor said, "…I ask you now to rise, and lift your glasses, to Isilden."

The whole population of the White City got to their feet, held up their goblets of wine and tankards of ale, and cried as one voice: "To Isilden!" I lifted my wineglass as well and drank like the rest of them, but it was a half-hearted gesture. I no longer felt honoured, for I knew I had left my only remaining relative to die in darkness and despair.

"Let the feast begin," commanded Denethor.

The Gondorians began their meal with gusto. I longed to join them, but I could not. I nibbled at a leg of roasted chicken, not enjoying one bite of it. Boromir noticed my complete lack of merriment, and leaned toward me in quiet concern.

"Isilden, are you feeling well?" he wanted to know. "You've hardly touched your dinner."

"I know, Boromir," I muttered almost inaudibly into my plate, sighing miserably. "I just can't stop thinking about her…"

"Your sister?" Boromir inquired softly. I nodded. "What about her?" the man asked.

"I can't bear thinking about how Saruman must be treating her," I moaned. "I'm here, among so many good people, and she's locked in a dungeon with no company but the scum of the earth. And even then she might…" I broke off, vainly suppressing a sob.

"She might be dead," Boromir finished for me.

I nodded, feeling hot tears begin to sting my eyes. But then an even hotter rage suddenly boiled up, swiftly overwhelming it. I slammed my clenched fist down onto my plate.

"I hate them," I snarled, anger igniting my dark eyes and hardening them to stone. "I hate them all. Murderers, cannibals, bloodthirsty monsters, that's all they are, the lot of them... I wish I could see every last one of them dead."

"We all do," Boromir said softly, laying a kindly hand on my shoulder. "But it is feelings just like that which get many innocent people slain. Tell me," he said, gazing keenly into my eyes, "have you ever killed someone?"

I thought, and two memories slid to the front of my mind. The first was the most recent, a memory of myself accidentally smothering an Uruk who had aimed to kill a helpless warrior. The other took me further back, to a rank chamber in a dark tower. Six orcs stood over my dear sister, my last relative in the world. I saw and heard myself, roaring in rage as I flailed a broken spike and cut two down. And Elennar was sobbing…

"Isilden?" Boromir said softly.

Jerking back to the present, I glanced up at my comrade and replied, "Yes, I've killed. I slew three orcs two different times. One was the Uruk I suffocated when I save you, and the other two I stabbed to death with a spike from a broken mace."

"I see," Boromir nodded. "When was that?"

I tried to answer him, but the anguish of remembering my sister's treatment by the orcs caused my throat to clot. I bowed my head, squeezing my eyes shut as I fought back tears.

"Oh," Boromir murmured sadly. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you. But if you want revenge on Saruman, and I know you do, you will have to learn how to fight, and from there to kill, with strategy and accuracy. I'm guessing that the first two orcs you killed were slain by random, wanton blows, am I correct?"

"I didn't really know what I was doing," I nodded. Then I looked hopefully up at him. "Can you teach me?"

"Teach you to kill?" said Boromir. "No. You learn that on your own. I can only teach you to fight."

"When can we start?" I asked eagerly.

"Slow down, Isilden," Boromir advised me. "We can start as soon as the feast is over. After we visit the blacksmith, we'll begin your lessons in the courtyard."

"Thank you, Boromir," I said gratefully. "I'll be the best student I can."

"I'm sure you will," Boromir agreed. "But you'll need to eat first, to get energy for your training. Besides, your food's getting cold."

I ate passionately now, my hunger for food heartened by a hunger for revenge. I was slaking the first to prepare for the time I might finally satisfy the second. That time would come much sooner than I thought…

----

Once the feast ended, Boromir and I slipped out of the Great Hall and down to the blacksmith's forge, where we each selected a weapon for practice. I chose a light, keen-edged sword, and Boromir chose a slightly heftier blade. Then we headed up to the courtyard for my lessons.

The first thing we noticed was that Denethor was standing there, leaning casually against the White Tree. He held his own sword in his hand, and he strode deliberately toward us as we approached.

"Father," said Boromir in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to supervise you while you help Isilden train for war," the Steward explained. "Just in case someone is injured."

"That's good of you, Father," Boromir replied, smiling. "But tell me… why do you have your sword with you?"

Denethor only smiled, and I understood. "You want to help me train as well, don't you, sire?"

The Steward nodded. "Our fighting styles differ, so I thought it would be good for you to learn how to defend yourself in different ways."

I nodded. "That's an excellent idea, sir."

"I thought so," Denethor agreed. "But before we get into any fighting, you need to learn the basics: your stance, how to hold the weapon, and how to parry, thrust, and stab with speed and precision. First, different stances…"

I listened carefully, copying the man as he demonstrated various fighting postures. Once I mastered those, we progressed to gripping swords and maintaining a balanced feeling in one's hand. From there my colleagues demonstrated a sample fight so I could watch them and get an idea of what to do and when.

At last Denethor nodded to me, saying, "Isilden, come here. It's your turn to fight. We'll help you along a bit, but in a real battle you'd be on your own. Are you ready?"

I nodded, holding my sword and crossing it with Denethor's in the "on guard" position. Denethor nodded, and we began our fight. Denethor swung his sword, and I parried it swiftly while Boromir called out advice and encouragement.

"Watch yourself, Isilden… careful, block that – very good! Very good, now dodge that, parry, stab – oh, excellent form!"

"You're doing very well," Denethor praised me, smiling. "And to think, you've never had any prior instruction…"

"Thank you, sir," I replied, quickly blocking a stab at my stomach. "Whoops…"

It went on like that for a while, until a wayward parry ended up with my thumb being stabbed accidentally. "Ow!" I yelped, dropping my sword as the sharp steel pricked my hand. A small amount of blood appeared, glistening darkly on my greenish skin.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Denethor said, handing his sword to his son and coming up beside me. Examining the cut, he murmured, "Interesting. Boromir, look at this," he called.

"What is it, Father?" Boromir asked, hurrying to my side. "Oh, he's bleeding… wait – his blood! It's red!"

"Yes," said the Steward. "And don't true orcs have black blood? This would appear to be another 'latter attribute', would it not?" he added quietly, glancing at me with a small smile.

I nodded, feeling a grin tugging at my own lips. "It certainly seems so, my lord. Oh, thank you," I added as Denethor bound a small strip of cloth around my thumb.

"You're quite welcome," said Denethor, picking up my sword from where I had dropped it, and handing it to me before accepting his own weapon from Boromir. "Ready to continue?"

I nodded again, and we went on with our duel. After several minutes I found Denethor's weak spot and dove at it. My blade halted just barely an inch from the Steward's chest.

Denethor stared down at the sword, then up at me, and smiled. "Good. You've learned well."

"I've been taught well," I said. "You and Boromir are great instructors."

Denethor smiled again and told me, "I think that's the best we can do for you. You have learned to fight, but you need to teach yourself to thrust your sword forward just a few inches more than you did. _That_ is how you learn to kill. Remember that, Isilden."

I nodded solemnly. "I will."


	10. The Infiltrators

**Chapter Ten: The Infiltrators**

That night, I was roused from a dreamless sleep by an urgent-looking Faramir. He didn't say a word, but beckoned for me to follow him. I nodded, and hurried after the Steward's son as he led me silently to Denethor's chambers.

The Steward was poring over something on a desk; he glanced up sharply when Faramir cleared his throat to announce our presence. "Faramir… oh, good, you've brought him. Come here, Isilden."

Confused, I stepped forward. "Sire?"

Denethor led me to his desk, and I gazed down at what the man had apparently been studying. It was a map of Middle-earth, with a dotted line of red ink leading from Minas Tirith to Orthanc. Denethor quietly explained it to me.

"The reason I brought you here," he said, "is because I need to ask you a very important question. I have heard that a horde of orcs are amassing in Isengard for some purpose. It is crucial that I find out what that purpose is. I want someone to go among them and spy for me, and bring back any and all vital information."

Suddenly I knew why he had called me. "Am I correct in guessing that you chose me because I look like one of them, under the theory that the orcs wouldn't harm one of their own?"

"Exactly. Are you willing to do this? I would never send anyone who was afraid to go."

I thought, and warily weighed my options. If I went, I might be able to warn Denethor if the orcs were a threat to the citadel. If I didn't go, the orcs might take Minas Tirith by surprise, and slaughter them in battle. If I went – this thought took _me_ by surprise – I would find out once and for all whether or not Elennar was alive. If I didn't go, I would never know. That decided it.

"I'll go," I answered.

Denethor nodded. "So be it. Be ready by sunrise."

----

Dawn came almost too early the next day. I packed as quickly as I could, and headed out to meet Denethor at the stables. He greeted me at the door, and we entered together.

The Steward led me to a stall that held a pure black stallion, and I prepared to mount it. But the horse let out a whinny of alarm when it spotted me. That upset many others, and soon the whole place was in an uproar. I had no choice but to flee while Denethor and a watching stable boy calmed the beasts.

"Well, it seems that that is no longer an option," said the Steward wearily. "And we have no faster means of transportation."

A sudden thought struck me: I looked like an orc, and was going to move among orcs, so why not become an orc? They were looking for hobbits, and there just happened to be two asleep in the citadel at that very moment. So, I reasoned, why not?

"Lord Denethor," I said abruptly. "I have a plan…"

----

"Where are we going?" Pippin asked for the third time, running to keep up.

"Lord Denethor wants to see us in his study," Merry explained. "Something about an excursion, right?"

I nodded. "Right. He wants the three of us to… well, it's kind of complicated. You see, Lord Denethor says that Saruman's orcs are gathering in Orthanc for some reason, and he wants us to, well, go there, and… find out what we can, and report back…" My voice faltered. "He thought you'd do."

"I _knew_ it!" cried Pippin. "It's because we're hobbits, isn't it? Everyone picks on the little people! I'll have you know, I may be only three foot six, but what I lack in height I make up for in courage!"

"I don't doubt an ounce of your courage, Pippin," I told him smiling, "but I'm coming too, remember. And I'm taller than either of you."

"I guess," the hobbit nodded. "But you also look like an orc, so it stands to reason that he'd pick you. Seeing as this whole excursion… mission…"

"Thing," I sad simply, hiding a smile. "Don't hurt yourself."

Pippin nodded. "This whole thing's about travelling with orcs, right? And you were almost an orc, so I bet he thought you'd have some kind of experience."

"You're right, Pip," Merry replied. "But I just thought… they're looking for us – Pippin and I – because they think we have something they want. If we go, and they find out we don't have it, we're doomed."

"We all have our reasons to fear Saruman," I said gravely. "You fear death, and I fear for my sister."

"Your sister?" asked Pippin.

I nodded. "Yes. She's trapped in Orthanc with the wizard. I left her behind when I was forced to join with the horde. I don't even know if she's dead or alive. And if she is alive, I'm going to find her and free her, or die trying."

Merry stared sadly at the ground. "Oh. I never knew…"

"It's all right," I replied. "The important thing is this: do you both agree to come with me to Orthanc? You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I'll go," said Merry.

"And me," added Pippin.

I smiled. "Thank you."

It was then that I noticed we were a short distance from the Steward's study. Striding confidently up to the door, I knocked thrice, and Denethor opened the door for us.

"Come in… ah, good. We have what you requested, Isilden." Denethor urged me forth, and I stared at what lay on his desk: a steel breastplate painted with the White Hand of Saruman, and a long sword with one jagged edge. There were also two coils of stout, coarse rope and three haversacks of provisions.

"I hope it fits," said the Steward, picking up the breastplate and holding it out to me. "Try it on."

I did so, picking up the sword as well. I noticed it was surprisingly light for its size. Swishing it through the air, I nodded in satisfaction. "It's perfect."

"Good," Denethor replied. "Let me look at you." He walked slowly around me, examining me from all angles. "Well," he said. "You certainly look the part, but…" Stopping, he gave a frown. "You're too clean."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" I asked, confused.

"You bathed yesterday with scented soap," Denethor explained. "I have seen many orcs in my time, and not one of them – except for you, of course – smelled like a basket of lilacs. You need to mask the scent somehow. In other words, get dirty."

"I see," I nodded. "Well, I'll take care of that on the way. After tramping around in the hot sun for a few hours, I'm sure I'll start to get rather ripe."

Denethor nodded. "Very well. But we're wasting time. Meriadoc, Peregrin, are you both ready?" he asked, glancing down at the two hobbits. They both nodded, starting to look anxious.

"Don't worry," I reassured them, picking up the ropes. "I'll make sure nothing happens to you. But there are some things you should know before we leave. One, all of the orcs think I'm a mute, so I can't readily communicate with you once we join the orcs. Two, you're supposed to be my prisoners, so try to make it look convincing. Squirm and whine all you want, but don't expect any mercy."

"Don't expect communication or mercy," said Pippin. "Got it."

"But what happens once we get to Isengard?" Merry inquired. "Will you still be able to help us then?"

It was my turn to be nervous. "I'll do my best," I replied. "Come on; the day's getting older. We have to get moving. Lord Denethor…" I turned and bowed to the Steward, removing my breastplate as I prepared to leave. Wearing it in the citadel was begging for death.

"Good luck, all of you," Denethor said, smiling in an encouraging way. "You are all very courageous to agree to undertake this so willingly. May the gods be with you always."

"Thank you, sire," I replied, heartened by the man's words. "Farewell."

Denethor nodded as he dismissed us. "Farewell."

---

My prediction about the weather were correct – the sun was very hot, and I could feel sweat plastering my hair to the back of my neck as we walked. Several minutes after we strode out of the citadel, I paused to put on my breastplate (not a smart idea, as it only worsened the heat) and bind the hobbits' wrists with the rope Denethor had provided.

"How long do you think this'll take?" I heard Pippin asking Merry as I half-pulled them along. "From here to Isengard, how far is it?"

"Over a week, at the rate we're going," Merry replied. I obediently sped up, determined to reach Orthanc – and my sister – as soon as possible. We had no time to lose. But the journey was long, and the heat was almost unbearable. I wondered vaguely how the orcs managed it.

The sun seemed to take an age to set. I wanted to go on while it was cool, but Merry and Pippin begged me for a rest. We made a temporary shelter for the night, eating a little of the food in our packs. The two hobbits curled up on the grass and were soon snoring contentedly. I stayed awake to keep watch; I couldn't have slept if I wanted to.

A sudden sound to the northeast made me turn. My ears were still as sharp as any elf's, thank the Valar, and I discerned its source easily. Many pairs of muffled, pounding footsteps and harsh, growling voices; sounds I knew all too well.

Orcs.

Bending over my friends, I shook their shoulders urgently, whispering, "Merry, Pippin, wake up! We're going to have company pretty soon."

"Will they stay for tea?" Pippin yawned, stirring slightly. Merry, fully awake, rolled his eyes.

"No, Pip," I answered grimly. "I'm afraid our uninvited guests have absolutely no notion of teatime, and their table manners are appalling. Not the kind of guests you'd normally invite over for dinner. They're more interested in having _you_ for dinner. Literally."

"Where are they coming from?" asked Merry, who was much more clear-headed than his half-asleep kinsman. "How many?"

"It sounds like a few hundred," I replied, "coming toward us from the northeast. They'll be here in about ten minutes, at most."

"Great," said Pippin, grinning. "That'll give us just enough time to escape."

"No," I disagreed firmly. "We need to _join_ the horde, Pippin. If anything goes wrong, I'll be here to protect you both. For now, we wait. Hide the food sacks, and act like a couple of unlucky wretches who didn't know what they walked into when they were caught."

"That's an accurate description," muttered Merry.

"Not now, Merry," I sighed. "We need your level head. Don't back out now."

"Shh!" Pippin hissed suddenly. "They're almost here!"

I hastily shut my mouth, waiting with bated breath. Soon numerous hulking figures emerged from the darkness. One, apparently the leader, spotted us and approached, saying, "Hey! Whatcha got there?"

I stepped aside, revealing the pathetic figures of my friends, who were blubbering very realistically. The orc grinned crookedly at me. I knew that lopsided smile only too well – my companion was Lunk, one of the two orcs who had captured my sister and I.

Hatred boiled within me, but I forced it down and adopted a haughty, "I caught them before you did" expression. Lunk nodded, as if in agreement, but also consideration. A spark had lit up somewhere in his mind.

"I remember you," he told me in his whiny voice. "You're the mute. I thought you'd cut out for good."

I shook my head, still smiling smugly. Lunk bent down and hauled the hobbits roughly to their feet, looking them up and down.

"They look healthy," he noted. "Since you've been taking such good care of 'em, Snagra, I think I'll let you take 'em the rest of the way. Well, one anyway. I doubt you could carry 'em both."

I loathed the sound of the name the orcs had given me, but I complied mutely. Lunk hoisted Merry up into the air, hooking the hobbit's arms around my neck. Then I did the same to Lunk, so that he carried Pippin. The orc nodded to me, and we joined the horde again. I prayed fervently this would be the last time.

I couldn't know how horribly wrong I was.


	11. In the Horde Again

**Chapter Eleven: In the Horde Again**

We ran through the night, the horde and I, under moonlight and shadow. Normally I would have paused every so often to marvel at the beauty of a silver-edged blossom glistening with tiny beads of dew, but under the present circumstances I could not. My companions trampled every flower that lay in their path, even the ones I tried to avoid. Lunk and I were at the front of the horde, running side-by-side.

"So, you caught the halflings," Lunk said conversationally. "Saruman's gonna be really happy with you. Wonder what kinda nice reward he'll come up with? Maybe you'll end up being their personal guard or something. I had my doubts about you before, y'know. But it looks like you proved your worth."

I nodded automatically, but my mind wasn't on Lunk's words. My attention had drifted to Merry and Pippin, who were speaking to each other in hushed voices, literally behind our backs. Both of them sounded terrified. And for good reason, I thought.

"What d'you think will happen once we get to Isengard?" Pippin whispered fearfully.

"I don't know, Pip," Merry replied softly. "But I can tell you it's definitely not going to be good. Saruman's not going to be nice to us. He'll kill us when he finds out…" He faltered, and drew a steadying breath. "When he finds out about us."

"What about Isilden?" Pippin wondered aloud. "And his sister… what's her name?"

"I think he mentioned it once," said Merry. "El… something. I can't remember."

_Elennar,_ I thought, inwardly cringing at the feeling of guilt and fear tugging forcefully at my heart. _Her name is Elennar._

"No talking back there!" Lunk snapped over his shoulder. "Save your breath fer when we get you to the tower! You'll need fresh voices fer answerin' milord's questions."

Both hobbits fell silent, and I gave a soundless sigh. My friends' voices had given me something to concentrate on besides the dull thudding of the orcs' footfalls. Now they echoed painfully in my ears, causing me to wince. Lunk frowned at me. "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head no, and Lunk shrugged and looked away, calling back to the rest of the horde. "Let's pick up the pace."

We sped up, with dawning sunlight spilling like a flood of liquid gold over the grass behind us, licking playfully at our ankles. It surged up like waves over the sea, breaking over my body and slowly warming me.

But as hot as the day would grow to be, no ray of sunshine could thaw out my heart. It was frosted over with the dark ice of hatred, fury and revenge… of bloodlust.

----

Lunk continued his one-sided conversations with me as we kept on our course. The topic had gradually turned to why the orcs were drawing together. This time I listened raptly, intent on gathering as much information as possible for Lord Denethor.

"Lord Saruman's plannin' something," Lunk told me, grinning. "Most likely we're gonna wage war on some dumb bunch of humans. Wonder where?"

"Helm's Deep is what I've heard," a croaky voice spoke up somewhere behind me. "Do you reckon we'll be enough? Them Rohan lot are tough."

"Yeah," another orc agreed. "You got a point there, Zharag. Lord Saruman wants the biggest army he can get. Thousands, I've heard."

"You mean _tens_ of thousands, Gorlen," said a strange whispery voice, this one right behind me. "Helm's Deep is a strong fortress. Outer wall's solid rock, 'cept for one little drain. Near unbreakable. We'll need something serious to get the job done."

"Like what?" asked Gorlen.

"Maybe the Wolf's Head," suggested the orc behind me. "Whaddaya think, Snagra?" The orc's hand thumped my shoulder, and I bit my lip to keep from replying.

"Don't bother talking to that 'un, Tharv," Zharag told him. "He ain't got a voice. I heard his throat got slashed 'cause he talked back to an officer."

"Yeah," snickered still another hidden voice. "Or maybe he insulted Lord Saruman."

"_Glob_!" (Black-speech: 'Idiot!') muttered Tharv. "If he insulted Saruman, he'd be warg's meat. You know that, Braghûl."

"All of you are wrong," said Lunk, in an irritated voice. "Snagra never spoke since he became one of us. His throat was slashed while he was in the pit. And about the Wolf's Head," he added, "we won't need it for this fight. We can take that old King's lot easy."

"What makes you so sure?" Tharv snorted. "You know how the horsemen fight. They'd kill a hundred of us without looking. We'd be nothing but gunk stuck under their horses' hoofs after they – _gaaahhhh_!"

"When I want your opinion," Lunk snarled, turning around and squeezing Tharv's neck with strong, thin fingers, "I'll ask you. Got it?"

Tharv let out a gurgle, his dark eyes bulging out from his pale, veined face. A dribble of blood left a black streak down his chin as it burbled up out of his mouth.

With a final gasp, the orc went limp. Lunk let him fall lifelessly to the ground, and left him there. The other orcs were gazing hungrily down at the carcass.

"We ain't had a thing to eat but wormy bread for four days," Braghûl spoke up, inching forward. "Can I 'ave his leg?" The orc was slavering at the mouth, his yellow-green eyes glinting.

Lunk nodded. "Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys! Have at him!"

With a tumultuous roar, the horde erupted into chaos. All of them were pushing and shoving each other aside to get a hunk of flesh from Tharv's corpse. All but me. I turned away, gagging at the reek of blood.

"Hey, Snagra!" yelled Braghûl. "You haven't had any yet! Want some?" He leered up at me with blood-spattered lips, holding something out to me.

My stomach lurched as I stared at what was in his hand: Tharv's heart, torn from his chest. Revolted, I hurriedly shook my head.

"No?" Braghûl frowned slightly, then grinned. "Ah, well. Your loss!" With a cackle, he promptly shoved the organ into his mouth; blood spurted out between his teeth as he chewed. I staggered backward, praying I wouldn't throw up.

I leapt aside as a pulpy eyeball flew past my head, followed by a string of intestines coming from another direction. The orcs were having a food fight.

After ten more nauseating minutes, the horde was through with Tharv. What was left of his body wasn't even fit for worms. Lunk waved to the orcs, and we were on our way once again. Now I had a myriad of new images to haunt my nightmares.

----

Eight hours and over ten thousand steps later, dusk settled gently over the shoulders of the land like an ebony cloak, with the bright silver moon as a clasp. Merry's body was limp against my back, and I could hear his slow, deep breaths as he slept.

I wished I could do the same. Running with the horde was exhausting in itself, but with the added burden of Merry's body I felt like I would soon collapse. But I struggled onward, the thought of Elennar's liberation bringing me hope and strength, both of which I needed abundantly.

It seemed the orcs shared my fatigue. I heard many of them panting and complaining in loud voices as we halted near a thick forest.

"We ain't going no further 'till we've had a breather!" cried Gorlen.

"Get a fire going!" Zharag croaked. "And keep an eye on those halflings – they're _not_ for eating!"

I sighed silently as Merry's weight left my back, and I could relax my shoulders for awhile. Lunk assigned me to watch the hobbits, and was glad of it. That meant that I could protect Merry and Pippin without looking overtly suspicious.

The evening was relatively quiet; the only sound other than the low grumbling of the orcs and the crackling of the campfire was the lonesome howl of a wolf in the distance. I shivered at the eerie call.

"You cold?" Lunk asked me, turning away from the fire he was standing by. "Come on over by the fire. I'll look after the Shire-rats."

I hesitated, reluctant to take my eyes off the hobbits for any length of time. But the fire did seem welcoming, more so than my companions. I nodded slowly and took Lunk's place between Zharag and Braghûl. The orcs were discussing the unfortunate Tharv's fate.

"I never much liked him," Zharag said disdainfully, spitting into the flames. "Always shoving his nose in where it didn't belong… not that he had much of a nose to shove."

"Yeah," Gorlen agreed from across the fire. "Slimy little worm. He deserved what he got."

Braghûl sniffed. "I enjoyed him."

"What, you liked his company?" Gorlen cried, incredulous.

"Nah," Braghûl grinned, picking at his teeth with a long, clawed fingernail. "I enjoyed _him._ He was quite a meal!"

Raucous guffaws met the orc's remark. I forced myself to nod and smirk along with the rest; my face felt as if it might crack.

Braghûl was ardently re-enacting how Tharv had looked when he had been throttled. Letting his tongue hang out of his mouth, he clasped his hands about his throat and made exaggerated gagging sounds. I grinned half-heartedly, but inwardly I wanted to vanish from the face of the earth.

The night wore on and on, every hour stretching to linger for an age. Glancing warily over my shoulder, I caught Pippin's anxious gaze. I managed to give him a reassuring smile, and then turned my gaze away before Lunk could become suspicious. The last thing I wanted was someone like that on my case.

----

The next day was even hotter than the previous one. Pushing sweat-soaked locks of hair out of my eyes as I ran, I cursed the breastplate I wore, which absorbed the sun's heat and burned any exposed skin it touched. I was glad for the tunic concealed beneath it, for it helped somewhat to minimize the searing effect of the metal. That came as a little relief.

My tunic… I had almost forgotten about it! If Saruman ever told me to remove my armor, he'd see the White Tree embroidered there, and slay me for my treachery. I had escaped swearing allegiance to him by feigning my own muteness, but the emblem of Gondor was a different matter altogether. How could I possibly bluff my way out of that?

_Worry about that when the time comes,_ whispered a voice in my head. _For now, just keep running._

Keep running. Well, that hadn't worked too well the last time, had it? I had ended up a prisoner, and then… I shuddered as a terrible thought struck me: did I really want to do this? I was going back to the place that had doomed me forever to a captive existence, like a firefly sealed in a black jar. That jar was my orc body; the firefly was my elven soul, futilely beating its wings against the unyielding glass. Trapped.


	12. Back to the Tower

**Chapter Twelve: Back to the Tower**

Three agonizingly long days and nights later, the tower of Orthanc loomed up before us, treacherous, cold and dark. I had never noticed before, but now I saw that it took the exact shape of Saruman's staff. I trembled as I approached the fortress' doors for the second time. Would I ever come out of there again?

An orc lifted Merry down from my back, and Pippin from Lunk's. Their hands still tightly bound, the hobbits swayed unsteadily when their feet touched the cold, barren ground.

I glanced at Lunk, who nodded to me. "You take 'em in, Snaga. You caught 'em in the first place."

I nodded, turning and glaring down at the hobbits. They put on a show of pleading with me and wrestling with their bonds when I grabbed their wrists and pulled them roughly forward, as Krân had once done with me, not very long ago.

With the rest of the horde standing expectantly behind, we strode up the steps; I raised my right hand, and knocked loudly three times. The door creaked slowly open to admit us, and I drew a deep breath and walked inside.

----

As I passed the threshold, a darkly familiar sight greeted me; halls and stairways, all hewn of black marble, the exact opposite of the White City of Gondor. Moonlight slanted coldly down through high, narrow windows. The foul stench of death plagued my nostrils again, and I wondered whether I would ever be rid of it.

A second door opened across from us, at the far end of the large hall we were in. Through it strode a figure that had haunted my blood-splattered nightmares for the past two weeks; an old man with a tall black staff, clad in flowing, pure white robes that openly belied the nature of his shriveled heart.

Saruman.

The wizard came toward me like a cat stalking its prey. I was a flightless bird in his path. Unable to move for fear, I could do nothing but wait and watch in petrified silence as he advanced, the look of deadly triumph on his lined features becoming all too clear with every step he took…

He halted not an arm's length from me. I could feel his dark gaze penetrating my soul. He stared from me to Merry and Pippin and back again and smiled evilly, giving a low, harsh chuckle. His voice, when he spoke, was like venomous ice.

"Good work, Snaga," he said to me, his deep voice making me shudder. "You will be richly rewarded for this, as soon as I'm through with these two."

He pulled Merry forward a few paces; the hobbit squirmed vainly in his grasp. The wizard smirked and turned back to me. "Take the other one and come with me. It's time to find out what they know about what I want."

----

We made our way up through the tower, ascending a long flight of stairs that I knew I had walked before. At the top was an iron door, which was shut and tightly locked. Saruman pointed his staff at it, and it opened with a groan.

"Inside," the wizard ordered. "Now!"

Shaking, I inched over the threshold. Now I stood in the first room I remembered from my capture: the torture chamber, with its terrible array of bloodstained axes, maces and swords.

The room was dark, lit only by a thin shaft of moonlight from a narrow window. I noticed that no-one had bothered to clean up all the dark, sticky blood that was splattered across the floor, from the orcs I had slain. The only thing that was different about it was what looked like a small pile of grubby rags and straw in the farthest corner of the room.

Saruman got down to business immediately. Grabbing Merry cruelly by the throat, he lifted him up so their eyes were level and snarled, "What is your name, halfling? If you lie, you die!"

Merry struggled to draw sufficient breath to speak. "M- Merry Brandybuck," he gasped.

"Do you know what I want, Merry Brandybuck?" the wizard asked coldly.

Merry nodded. "You want… the Ring."

"Correct," Saruman replied. "Now give it to me."

"I c- can't," Merry stammered. "I don't have it; I don't know where it is."

"You're lying," his captor hissed, eyes blazing in fury. I saw Merry cringe in disgust as a fleck of spit struck his cheek.

"No, I'm not!" he cried. "I don't know where it is, honest!"

"Fine," Saruman snapped. "Perhaps your friend can tell me what I need to know."

Flinging Merry roughly to the floor, he turned to his next victim. Pippin was daring enough to try and flee, but Saruman grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"And who might you be?" he inquired, his cruel voice like silk on steel.

"P- Pippin Took," the hobbit whimpered. "And I don't know where the Ring is, either! Let me go! Let us both go!"

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request," Saruman replied. "In a word, _no_. You're not going anywhere."

Slowly and deliberately he twined his long fingers about the hobbit's throat, closing them tight. Pippin struggled to breathe, his face contorted in pain. I could only watch, horrified, helpless to help him. My legs were like lead, rooting me to the floor. My friend was slowly dying before my eyes…

"Stop it!" a voice screamed suddenly. "Leave him alone!"

My heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, as if it were some small, frightened animal curled up inside my chest, holding its breath. I _knew_ that voice, and I knew it well. But it couldn't be… she wasn't here. Was she? I hadn't seen her… or _had_ I?

I turned my gaze to the far corner of the room. What I had first thought was a heap of discarded cloth scraps and straw was moving.

Skeletal, white-skinned arms and legs were emerging. A curtain of greasy flaxen hair framed a gaunt, dirty face with wide, tear-filled blue eyes. The grimy rags were in fact a dress, threadbare and stained. The girl wept and pleaded urgently with the indifferent wizard, "Don't hurt them, please! They haven't done anything!"

Those words were strangely familiar, I thought. Where had I heard them before?

A memory slid deliberately to the front of my mind. An orc –_me_ – standing in a darkened chamber, while the pathetic figure of a young elf shivered and sobbed. _Don't hurt me! Please, I haven't done anything!"_

My pulse quickened. Could it be? I stared hard at the figure in the corner, focusing on what lay behind the grime. Gazing intently into her eyes, I saw a young girl with a fiery heart concealed by a shy exterior. A little elfling who loved her big brother more than anything else in the world. A terrified orphan whose whole life had been ripped to shreds in one terrible instant.

_Elennar_.

----

Saruman slowly released Pippin, who fell to the floor, coughing for breath. Merry scrambled over to his friend, crying, "Pip! Pippin! Are you alright?"

Pippin couldn't reply for a while as he choked and wheezed in an attempt to breathe. He drew a deep breath, then another, until he was breathing normally again.

"I'm alright," he gasped finally. "Don't worry about me."

"Silence," commanded Saruman. His dark eyes narrowing, he turned slowly to face me. I was still gazing at my sister in disbelief, and I flinched when he barked, "What are you staring at?"

I shook my head wordlessly, averting my head and bowing it humbly as I stepped back. Saruman nodded once before turning back to the hobbits and berating them sharply. His back was to me; I imagined a long, slender knife plunging between the wizard's shoulder blades, piercing his heart from behind… _So why not?_

A wicked grin rose to my lips as I unsheathed my sword. The blade glittered dangerously, long, thin and keen. This was my chance for cold, sweet revenge. Saruman would finally pay for every foul deed he had ever done…

I half-raised the weapon in a shaking hand, recalling Lord Denethor's words to me: _"__…Teach yourself to thrust your sword forward just a few inches more…"_

Yes, that was it. I drew a deep, slow breath and held it, willing myself not to falter. I couldn't lose my nerve, not now. I was so close.

_But…_

A thought rose up in my mind: could I really do this? Me, Isilden, the unwilling Uruk, who had only before killed in a blind rage. Could I actually bring myself to slaughter someone in cold blood? And right in front of Elennar… how would that affect her?

I lowered my weapon slightly. My conscience seemed to be winning the battle of wills; bloodlust was definitely putting up a fight. A half-grin twisted my mouth at exactly the wrong moment – Saruman turned around just then. He saw my lopsided leer, and smiled appreciatively.

"Maybe you can get something out of these troublesome halflings," he said. "Shall I let you have your way with them?"

I nodded, my smirk widening as I got another idea. This one was a plan for escape. If I could only get Saruman to leave me alone with my friends, for ten minutes at least… That would be just enough time to carry out my newest plot.

Scanning the room, I spotted a long, nine-stranded whip hanging from a hook on the wall. _Perfect,_ I thought. _Now get out of here, you filthy son of a snake._

My timing couldn't have been better; not two seconds later an orc hurried up to the wizard, who turned and snarled, "What do you want?"

"Please, sire," croaked Zharag's familiar voice, "there's trouble in the horde."

"Trouble?" Saruman demanded. "What kind of trouble?"

"That lot you're sending to Helm's Deep, milord," Zharag replied. "One of them got real snippy with another, and then someone else joined in, and now they're all fighting. You'll lose a good fifty thousand orcs if you don't do something quick, they're hacking each other to pieces… it ain't pretty."

"Very well," the wizard snapped. "I'll be back shortly," he told me brusquely. "_Don't_ go easy on them." He shot a dark, contemptuous glare in the direction of the two hobbits before turning on his heel and sweeping silently away.


	13. The Captive and the Commander

**Chapter Thirteen: The Captive and the Commander**

The door closed with a loud _click_, and I was alone with Elennar, Merry and Pippin at last. Sighing in relief, I turned to the hobbits. "Finally. Now I can you out of here… all of you."

My gaze flicked over to my sister, who was still huddled in her corner. As I gazed at her, she stared back at me in wide-eyed terror. My mind was screaming as my stomach writhed in guilt. _Can't you see me?_ I cried. _Look into my eyes… it's still me inside. I want to help you – let me!_

I glanced down at Pippin, who was crawling to my side. "Isilden?" he said softly.

I said nothing as my eyes blurred and burned with tears. Squeezing them shut, I turned my head away. But a soft, timid voice caused me to look up.

"Did you say Isilden?"

Elennar had risen to her feet and was inching forward, her eyes darting this way and that. She looked almost like a mouse in the way she crept nervously out toward us.

"P- please," she stammered, gazing intently at Pippin, "what did you say? Did you say Isilden?"

Pippin nodded as I cut him free, helping him to his feet. "Yes, that's what I said," he replied, smiling kindly at my sister. "Why?"

Elennar advanced further, still wary. "He's my brother," she said in a near whisper. "Isilden's my brother, and I lost him."

"Lost him?" Merry spoke up, stepping forward as his slashed bonds fell to the floor. "How did you lose him?"

At this my sister's eyes filled up with tears again. Falling to her knees, she buried her face in her hands and wept aloud. Merry hurried forward and hugged her, whispering, "Shh, shh, it's all right. Don't cry now, be a brave girl…"

"It's n- n- not all r- right," Elennar sobbed. "Th- they t- t- took h- him away, and n- n- now I'll n- n- never s- see h- h- him again!" She moaned in anguish, pressing her face into the hobbit's chest

I couldn't bear much more of it. How would Elennar possibly understand that there was nothing to fear? I was standing beside her, near enough to reach out and touch her, but she couldn't see. To her, I was just another of her tormentors. Just another orc.

Pippin gazed at me in concern. I stared hopelessly back. It was futile. Nothing I tried would bring anything but fear. My sister was standing in a river and dying of thirst.

_I'm sorry,_ I thought miserably, as tears began to well up in my eyes. _I can't change a thing that's happened; I can't make you see me for who I really am. I want you back… I want_ me _back. But no-one can give us what we want. No-one._

Suddenly another thought came to me. I knelt beside my friends and whispered my sister's name. "Elennar?"

Elennar stiffened, lifting her head to stare at me in mingled horror and awe. "How do you know my name?" she asked me

_I'm your brother, Elennar! It's me, Isilden!_ Those sweet words left sugary footprints on my tongue as they danced there, but I hastily swallowed them, cringing as they soured in my throat. Instead I said, "I know your brother. I saw him, not long ago." I hated to lie to my dear sister, but it was necessary.

"You saw him?" Elennar asked, staring at me in surprise. "You met him?"

I nodded. "Yes. He told me to give you a message; he loves you very, very much, and he wishes more than anything that he could be here with you."

"Really?" my sister whispered, her eyes alight with wonder.

"Really," I answered. "And there was one more thing…"

"What?" Elennar inquired, frowning.

I hesitated. "Well, it wouldn't really mean the same coming from me, but Isilden told me that if I ever saw you, I should give you a hug for him."

Elennar gazed uncertainly at me for a moment, then slowly nodded. I smiled, wrapping my arms gently around her body as she clambered into my lap. But I saw her shiver at the sight of my breastplate and the White Hand painted on it.

I understood. Carefully I took my armor off, knowing I was risking my life by doing so. What if Saruman should return? The Gondorian emblem on my tunic would be my doom. But I was willing to take that risk for my sister.

Elennar rested her head against my chest after I took my breastplate off. As I put my arms lovingly around her, I silently rejoiced. The world, for a moment, was all right again. My sister was alive, nestled safely in my arms, where she belonged. I never wanted to let go. Tears of joy began to flow down my cheeks.

I then noticed a small hand brushing the moisture from my face. Elennar gazed up at me in concern, saying, "It's okay, don't cry."

My smile broadened, and I replied, "These are happy tears, Elennar. I'm imagining the look on your brother's face when I tell him I met you," I lied. Then I gave a real sigh. "I just wish he could be here with you, instead of some nasty, stinky orc."

"You're not nasty or stinky," my sister told me. "You're really nice, and you smell…" She sniffed, pressing her nose into my tunic, and finished, "…like flowers."

That came as a genuine surprise. "Really?"

Elennar nodded. "Really." Then she frowned up at me. "Why are your eyes blue? All the other orcs have red or yellow eyes. Yours are pretty."

"Thank you," I smiled. "I'm not sure where I got blue eyes from. Maybe Saruman ran out of all the other eye colors when he got to me." Then I laughed. "He sure didn't go easy with the green, though, did he?"

"No," Elennar giggled. I smiled at the sound of her laughter, so musical and light. But then a much different and sinister sound reached my ears: footsteps. I knew at once that they belonged to the wizard.

"He's coming back!" I whispered.

Elennar scrambled off my lap as I stood up. Hastily I put my breastplate on again, then bent and picked up the ropes that lay on the floor. "Hurry!" I hissed to the hobbits. "Get over here!"

Merry and Pippin stood still as I tied them up again, turning to my sister. "Please listen to me," I told her. "Get back in the corner where you were before. I have to do something right now, and it'll look like I'm hurting them—" I pointed to the hobbits, "—but I'm really just pretending. I'm going to get us out of here, all right?"

"Promise?" Elennar whimpered.

I nodded, moving over to the wall and taking down the long whip I had seen earlier. "I promise."

Elennar had just one more request. "Tell my brother I love him."

"I will," I told her solemnly. "Now get back, quick!"

She nodded, and was soon a mere pile of rags in the corner with two glittering blue eyes. I raised the whip, cracking it loudly as the footsteps grew nearer. Turning my back on the door, I made a show of lashing the air above my friends' bodies while they yelled in pretended agony. Every so often I brought the whip down upon their backs for real, just so it would look as though they had really been flogged.

The door creaked open behind me, and Saruman's cruel voice met my ears. "That's enough, Snagra. They're ready to talk."

I turned to him and bowed low, the picture of meek servility, and the wizard gave a twisted smile. I felt sick with shame. How low had I sunk?

_At least you're not actually swearing allegiance,_ I reassured myself. _None of this is real. You're not an Uruk of Orthanc; you're a servant of Gondor._

_Don't be so sure,_ a spiteful little voice hissed somewhere else inside my head. _A bow is as good as a word to some. Just see how he takes it._

_Shut up,_ I snapped silently, biting my tongue hard to keep the words from leaving my mouth. _I'll never serve that bit of filth. I won't be at his beck and call, creeping around like some dumb animal. I won't let myself be used for evil. They can't do anything else to me. I won't let them!_

_It doesn't matter whether you'll let them or not,_ the voice told me. _They don't care about that. All they care about is serving their master, and luring others into their nets. Once you're tangled, there's no hope for you. You'd be better off dead._

_But I never was tangled,_ I protested mutely. _I may look like one of them, but inside I'm still Isilden. I'm still me._

"I have a reward for you," Saruman told me, jerking me out of my thoughts. "You will be a commander in my horde, leading your own troops to war at Helm's Deep. You will lead the twenty-third squadron of the left wing. I'm sure you will do well, despite your…" he paused, his eyebrows contracting slightly as he searched for an appropriate word, "…nonconformity."

I couldn't help but frown. How could I lead a group of orcs I couldn't even speak to? I gestured to my throat and shrugged, and Saruman nodded. "I have a remedy for that. Here is your assistant." He pointed to the orc next to him: Zharag.

I shivered at the sight of my former colleague, whose blood-hued eyes glinted in his ash-hued face. His yellow, rotten teeth protruded from purplish gums as he grinned at me. I merely nodded.

Saruman stared mutely at his servant, and then nodded to me. Setting down my whip, I followed Zharag as he turned to leave. My heart throbbed with guilt for the hundredth time, but I didn't dare turn back.

"Good job," Zharag complimented me as we walked down the stairs. "It's not often Lord Saruman makes an ordinary horde-orc into a commander, just like that. He must like what you did."

I nodded wordlessly. My promotion was both good and bad. As a commanding officer in the horde, I'd be long gone before Saruman found out he had the wrong two hobbits captive. But I had left Elennar behind as well. I could never fulfill my promise to her now.


	14. Helm's Deep

**Chapter Fourteen: Helm's Deep**

The march was long, cold and wearying. The voice in my head returned with a vengeance, and reprimanded me over and over: _Now you've done it, you idiot. You've gone and left your friends to die, not to mention your sister. And now they all expect you to be some great commander? You don't even know how to kill!_

_I don't want to kill,_ I argued with myself. _I got what I wanted._

_What's that?_ the voice sneered. _You wanted to be a commander?_

_No,_ I thought angrily. _I saw Elennar. I held her in my arms._

_But it wasn't who she wanted it to be,_ the voice hissed. _It wasn't her brother Isilden; it was Snagra the orc._

_Shut up!_ I snarled mentally. _She loves me, and I love her. That's all that matters._

The voice fell silent, and I sighed. Maybe it had been right after all. Elennar hadn't been held by her brother, but by a green-skinned, White-Hand-wearing, hobbit-whipping orc. Snagra was no real substitute for Isilden; Elennar and I both knew it. But the voice in my head knew it best.

----

The orcs didn't strike up conversations as we marched this time, so I was plagued again by their incessantly thudding footfalls. But I soon noticed another sound, an annoying snigger from beside me. The unusually short orc on my right was laughing, with a sound like shifting gravel.

"Keeheehee… gonna get 'em good, we are… heehee, fifty thousand against a couple 'undred… won't stand a chance, them… keehee!"

"Shuttup and keep marching, ya rat!" Zharag snapped. "Don't know why I put up with you, Dugum. Might as well order a rock to march, the way you listen…" He spat angrily on the grass. "Keep moving, all of you!"

Marching on, I suddenly cringed as my ears popped and my throat burned, almost simultaneously. It felt as if I'd just had boiling water poured into them both; they felt seared, and I couldn't hear or breathe for a short while. None of the other orcs seemed to notice or care, so I went on in stoical silence.

----

Dark clouds rolled overhead as the sun set. Icy rain poured down on us, seeping through gaps in our armor. My soaked tunic clung uncomfortably to my body.

I could see Helm's Deep looming in the distance, a shadow that grew with every step I took. As the horde drew nearer, I could begin to see the figures atop the walls; a great host of men and elves. And I was expected to kill them.

We halted before the wall, and I gazed up at our adversaries. I instantly recognized Aragorn and Legolas; the two of them were armed, ready to leap into battle at a word. I shuddered at the expressions of hate upon their faces. Everyone was utterly silent, waiting…

Suddenly an arrow whizzed down like a lightning bolt, embedding itself in the throat of an orc beside me. A voice cried out from above, "_Dartho!_" (Wait!)

The orc gave a groan and fell dead on the ground. The horde gave a roar fifty thousand voices strong, and charged. The war had begun.

Arrows hissed through the sky, striking elves and orcs alike. My companions fell around me, and I was lucky enough to receive only a grazed shoulder. Slowly I approached the wall, narrowly avoiding death many times.

An arrow zipped past, mere inches from my throat, and an idea struck me. Pretending the shaft had pierced my neck, I made a gurgling noise and fell to the ground as if I had been slain. The orcs all moved around me; some stepped on my back, thinking I was a corpse.

I warily lifted my head and crawled on my stomach toward where a group of orcs were erecting a tall ladder. Scrambling onto it, I jumped off onto the wall just as a man shoved it backward. Parrying his sword, I ducked away and was soon lost in the masses of fighting elves, men and orcs.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated a dark-haired elf being forced back by a group of attacking orcs. The elf had a gash across his brow that was slowly dripping blood into his eyes. He slashed at his foes, half-blinded. I leapt on the orc nearest me and cut it swiftly down, then proceeded to finish the others.

The elf wiped his eyes with his sleeve as I lowered my sword and spoke to him. "_Naa le tereva?_" (Are you all right?) I asked.

Looking startled, the elf nodded. "_Yé,_" (Yes) he replied. "_Ya naa le? Sut ilue pedich Sindarin?_" (Who are you? How can you speak Sindarin?)

"_Tanya uumea rona si,_" (That doesn't matter now) I told him. "_Iluea le uma meso'nat ten nin?_" (Could you do something for me?)

"_Ai'nat,_" (Anything) the elf replied. "_Sut ilue bangadon le?_" (How can I repay you?)

"_Istach Aragorn ion Arathorn?_" (Do you know Aragorn son of Arathorn?) I asked.

The elf smiled, a light entering his eyes. "_Iston ro mae. Erin maba le na ro, ae anirach._" (I know him well. I can take you to him, if you wish.)

"_Hannon-le,_" (Thank you) I sighed gratefully. "_Manke naa ro?_" (Where is he?)

"_Aphado nin,_" (Follow me) said the elf. "_Mani naa essa lîn?_" (What is your name?)

"Isilden," I replied, reverting to the Common Tongue. "My name is Isilden."

"I am Lord Elrond of Rivendell," the elf told me. "I am in your debt, Isilden."

"It was nothing, sire," I said with a smile.

Lord Elrond glanced up sharply. "Get down!"

We both ducked as arrows flew past just where our heads would have been. I glanced at Elrond, remarking, "Well, it looks like you don't owe me your life anymore, sir."

Elrond gave a brief laugh as he straightened up. "So it would seem. Now come with me, quickly!"

We raced along the battlements of the wall, hacking down orcs as we ran. Blood splattered my armor, only to be washed away by the torrential rain. Elrond's cloak was slashed in a dozen places, flapping in the cold wind. We fought as one, watching each other's backs.

After a while we stopped, and Elrond put his hand to his forehead, murmuring under his breath in Elvish. I couldn't see what happened, but when the elf lowered his hand, there was no evidence of a cut except for a crimson smear to show where it had bled.

"How did you do that?" I gasped.

"I'm a healer," Elrond answered. "It's a gift of mine; one of many." He removed his cloak and handed it to me. "Take this – you'll need it more than I."

I frowned slightly, inquiring, "Won't you be cold, sir?"

"A little," the elf replied. "But it will help to hide your identity. You'll be much safer this way."

I nodded, securing the cloak about my shoulders with the leaf-shaped clasp Elrond handed me, and pulling the hood up to conceal my face. Then I looked down dejectedly – it was even longer than the one I'd borrowed from Aragorn. That day seemed so long ago now.

"Ready?" Elrond asked me. "All right – let's keep going."

We ran on, with lightning flashing overhead and thunder roaring in our ears. An arrow very narrowly missed my ankle. When I tried to go on, I found that the shaft had pinioned Elrond's cloak to the stone beneath me.

"Lord Elrond, wait!" I yelled. "I'm stuck!"

Elrond turned, frowning as he spotted the arrow. Reaching out for it, he jerked his hand back as another shaft embedded itself in his cloak. "Use your sword! Cut it loose!" he cried.

I nodded, slashing at the cloth with my blade. Finally it tore away, and I stumbled back a pace. Regaining my balance, I was half-pulled along by the elf, hurrying to safety.

"There," Elrond gasped, suddenly pointing. "There's the door. Hurry!"

I looked, and saw a thin ray of red-gold light spilling out into the night. Rushing toward it, we both ducked into the keep, and were instantly jostled about by a mass of Rohirrim soldiers carrying wood for a barricade. Elrond moved in front of me, calling, "Aragorn?"

"Lord Elrond!" a voice cried out. I looked up to see Aragorn struggling to reach us through the crowd; he was followed by another man, with golden hair that came down to his broad shoulders, and framed his kingly face with its wise blue eyes.

Elrond and I both bowed our heads in respect. "Théoden-King," the elf said to the gold-haired man. "We can't hold them off for long. We need more time."

"How long?" asked Aragorn.

"As long as you can give me," Elrond replied, backing toward a hallway to the side. He looked down at me and ordered, "Stay here, Isilden," before re-entering the fray outside.

Aragorn sighed in relief, stepping closer to me. "Isilden! You're alive… Whose cloak is that?"

"Lord Elrond's," I replied. "Why?"

"Just curious," the Ranger shrugged. "Was it like that before you borrowed it?"

"Pretty much," I answered. "Well, except for the missing corner, that happened after…"

"Never mind," Aragorn halted me. He pressed himself against the wall as half a dozen Rohirrim passed, all bearing a long beam between them and shoring up the door with it. "How did you get here?"

"With the others," I replied. "All fifty thousand of them, give or take."

Théoden gave me a blank look, repeating, "The others?"

Aragorn nodded silently to me, and I slowly lowered my hood and unfastened Elrond's tattered cloak from my shoulders, revealing both my face and the White Hand upon the breastplate I wore.

Théoden's sword made a rasping noise as it flashed from its scabbard. Aragorn stayed his hand, nodding again. I took off my orc-armor and showed the king my sodden tunic, White Tree and all.


	15. The Hall of Healing

**Chapter Fifteen: The Hall of Healing**

Théoden stared in disbelief. "What… how…?"

"It's a very long story, sire," I told him. "Perhaps another time."

Théoden nodded as he advised me, "If you're going to keep fighting, you'll need that armor, no matter what's painted on it."

I shook my head. "I've done enough fighting to last me quite awhile, thank you sir."

"Very well," the king nodded. "Put it here if you're not using it again."

I discarded the breastplate gratefully, wishing that my clothes were dry, and not clinging damply to my body as they were. It was very uncomfortable.

I shuddered slightly as a voice yelled from outside, "They're breaking in!" Others cried out in Elvish, "_Drégad! Drégad!_" (Retreat! Retreat!)

As the door shook yet again, I turned to the king. "What do we do?"

Théoden opened his mouth to speak, but no sooner had his lips parted than three figures entered the keep. It was Elrond, supported by an elf I instantly recognized as Legolas, and accompanied by Gimli.

Aragorn rushed forward, carefully holding Elrond upright as he asked urgently, "What happened?"

Elrond's face was a mess of bruises, and a long cut slanted down his cheek. Beaming in triumph, he gazed at us with his only good eye – his right (the left one was blackened and puffy) – and gasped, "Gandalf came… the orcs… all retreating… we won!"

Then he slumped lifelessly to the ground.

"Is he all right?" I asked in alarm, moving to the limp elf's side as Aragorn bent over him. The man looked up after a moment and sighed. "He's only unconscious, but that cut looks bad. If it were anyone else but him…"

"It can't be helped," said Théoden. "I'll help you carry him; we must get him to the hall of healing."

The king looked at me as he, Aragorn and Legolas picked up Elrond's body and carefully inched backward. "Isilden, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, sire. What is your wish?" I stepped toward him questioningly.

"You should come with us," he told me. "No doubt you will have some explaining to do once Lord Elrond wakes."

----

I hovered apprehensively nearby as my companions laid Elrond down gently on a soft mattress in the hall of healing. Théoden turned to the nearest unoccupied healer and ordered, "Bring clean linen and dressings, and some ice."

"Yes, milord," said the healer, bowing and darting away. He was back a minute later with the dressings and a bowl of cold water and ice, and reported, "We've just run out of clean linen, sire, unless you want us to use blankets…"

Théoden sighed, handing the healer's findings to me. "All right, then. Be quick!"

"Sire," I spoke up nervously, before the healer could depart, "I don't think that will be necessary. You see, this cloak is well beyond repair, and it's quite clean, so perhaps you could use it." I unfastened the ragged garment as I spoke, holding it out to the king.

He nodded slowly. "Yes, it may suffice. Very well."

My comrades proceeded to tear the already fairly shredded cloak into broad strips and dipping them into the icy water. Aragorn carefully placed a few pieces of the damp cloth over the bruises that covered Elrond's face, and the elf slowly opened his good eye. "Aragorn?" he rasped uncertainly.

The man nodded. "I'm here, _mellon nin_." (my friend)

Elrond managed a weak, hoarse laugh as he sat up. "Well, isn't this a twist," he said dryly. "The healer has become the healed. How ironic."

"Healing," Aragorn corrected him. "You're not well yet. But I think you'll be fine."

"That's good news," the elf replied. His gaze flicked over to me, and he smiled. "Ah, Isilden. Good to see you're alive."

"And you, my lord," I said, smiling politely as I came nearer. "I was worried you weren't going to make it."

"I appreciate your concern," Elrond told me gratefully. He winced slightly as Théoden carefully cleaned dried blood from the cut on his cheek and applied a dressing. "Ah, thank you. Well, Isilden," he said, gazing intently at me, "I have been wondering about you."

I knew just what was coming next, but I merely smiled and asked politely, "What have you been wondering, sir?"

"Many things," the elf answered. "But first, how do you know Sindarin? Aren't you… well…" Elrond hesitated slightly, looking a bit uncomfortable, and I could tell that he didn't want to offend me if he accidentally said the wrong thing.

"An orc?" I finished for him. Elrond nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.

"I'm not really sure," I replied truthfully. "I know I was an elf once; I can remember that. But then my family was attacked by orcs, and…" I swallowed the lump that was clotting my throat and went on, "…my sister and I were captured. They took us both to Orthanc…"

I began recalling the story of my life for the third time. Both Elrond and Théoden listened attentively; I saw the pain in their faces when I detailed my failed transformation, and their quiet sorrow at my separation from Elennar. I detailed my jointure with the Fellowship, and how I had nearly slain Gandalf, thinking he had been Saruman.

I told them what had occurred in Minas Tirith, from my near murder to my return to Orthanc with Merry and Pippin. Here Legolas interrupted; his voice fraught with disbelief and anger.

"_You took them with you to the tower?_" he cried. "What on earth were you thinking? You could have gotten them killed!"

"They wanted to come!" I protested. "I told them they didn't have to, but they said they would. It wasn't my fault!"

Legolas sighed heavily, calming down again. "Go on."

I did so, recounting with a shudder the arrival of the orc-horde, and my ineffective "conversations" with Lunk. I told of the murder of Tharv, and the orcs' treatment of his carcass. I recalled my second encounter with Saruman, and his interrogation of Merry and Pippin.

Next I described my reunion with Elennar, and my failure to get even with the wizard. Then came how I was a commander in the horde ("Well, more like commander-in-chief; Zharag was the one who gave all the orders").

Finally I detailed my struggle to reach the fortress, and my first meeting with Elrond. When I stopped for want of breath and lack of words, Théoden spoke to me.

"That is a grim tale," he said. "But tell me, how did you plan to escape the tower, even if Saruman did let you out of his sight long enough?"

"I saw a whip hanging on the wall," I explained. "It had nine thick strands, about this long." I held my hands apart to indicate the length. "I had planned on taking it apart and tying the strands together to make one long rope, and climbing down the tower until I reached the balcony below. Then Elennar, Merry and Pippin would all come down, and we'd keep going like that."

Théoden nodded, and Elrond spoke. "But what about after that? Once you reached the ground, there would still be danger to contend with. The orcs, the wizard… and the Ents."

"Ents?" I frowned.

"Yes," Elrond replied. "They are known as 'shepherds of the forest', because of how they guard and care for the trees in their realm. Saruman has been cutting down trees for use in his tower, and if the Ents ever found out, they would be furious. They may even attack Isengard for revenge."

"Well, we have something in common, the Ents and I," I said bitterly. "I want revenge on Saruman as well. He destroyed my life and took everything away from me that I ever loved. He made me _this_. He turned me into an orc."

"You said yourself that you weren't," Elrond said calmly.

"No, I didn't," I told him. "I said I wasn't sure. I don't know what I am. I'm an orc on the outside, but I don't know what I am on the inside."

"Well, I don't recommend cutting yourself in half to find out," the elf laughed. I smiled slightly, and Aragorn addressed me.

"Where do you plan to go now?" he asked me. "The war is over; Helm's Deep is safe, but Merry and Pippin – and your sister – are still in Orthanc, are they not?"

Panic suddenly closed its cold fist over my heart. "But what if they're…" I swallowed the huge lump in my throat and went on, "I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to them, especially Elennar. I promised I'd set them free, if it was the last thing I did."

"Then you should go back," Elrond told me. "I think—" He broke off, glancing around as footsteps sounded, accompanied by the noise of wood clunking on stone. A man in snowy robes was approaching, using his tall white staff as a walking stick.

I tensed momentarily, but soon remembered Gandalf. The wizard nodded to acknowledge me as he moved up to Elrond's bedside, gazing at the elf in concern. "Are you all right, Lord Elrond?"

"I will be," Elrond replied, smiling. "Thank you for asking."

Gandalf nodded. "You're welcome."

Elrond nodded, reaching up to peel the bandages away from his face. He protested politely when Théoden dissented.

"With respect, sire, I'm a healer. I'll take care of it," he assured the king, lifting his hand to his face and frowning slightly as the gash closed cleanly and the bruises faded. Then he glanced down at the damp cloths he held. "These bandages look very familiar."

"They should," Aragorn told him. "A few minutes ago, they were your cloak."

"My cloak?" the elf frowned. "Then what happened to the clasp?"

I held out the leaf-shaped brooch, apologizing humbly. Elrond waved my confession aside, glancing over at Aragorn as he spoke to Gandalf.

"What happened?" he asked. "Have the Uruks left for good?"

"Yes," said the wizard. "They won't be back."

Théoden sighed in relief, and Gandalf spoke again, more solemnly. "Sauron's rage will be terrible, and he will strike back swiftly. The fight for Helm's Deep is over, but the fight for all of Middle-earth will soon begin."


	16. Decision and Dreams

**Chapter Sixteen: Decision and Dreams**

I shuddered at Gandalf's statement, but soon another thought entered my mind: Lunk, Braghûl, Zharag and all the other orcs were either slain or retreating. It was doubtful I would ever see any of them again. I forced back a smile of triumph as Elrond looked at me and spoke, continuing from where he had been interrupted.

"As I was saying, I believe someone should go with you to Orthanc," he told me. "You would be much safer that way, and we could attempt to parley with Saruman as well. Perhaps he will give in and release your friends and your sister."

"Yes," Aragorn muttered, his voice dripping sarcasm. "And perhaps the Ring will grow legs and stroll right into Mount Doom where it belongs."

Elrond sighed. "Yes, you're probably right."

"Not necessarily," Gandalf informed them. "There's still a chance that Saruman's defeat will have weakened his will, or at least shaken it, for a time."

"You have a point, Mithrandir," noted Théoden. "But I still wonder about Isilden. What would Saruman think if an orc, one that he thought was his servant, suddenly turned on him? We don't know all that goes on inside the wizard's mind."

"Perhaps not," Elrond spoke up. "But I was a part of the White Council in days of old, as was Saruman. And so were you, Gandalf. We both know something of how Saruman's mind works, if not everything. That's a start, at least."

Gandalf nodded. "On the subject of Isilden, I think it is up to him to decide whether or not he wants to return to Isengard again. After all, Saruman may or may not have had his way with his prisoners. They may or may not be alive."

He turned to me. "Well, Isilden? What is your decision?"

I thought carefully, not wanting to be rash. Horrible memories of Orthanc flooded my mind, but I blocked them out. There was still hope. Elennar might still be alive. I would do my best to fulfill my vow to her.

"I'm going," I said.

The wizard nodded. "So be it."

"When do we leave?" I asked.

"Tomorrow," Théoden answered. "After everyone has had a chance to rest, and recover from the shock of the war."

I nodded, but I couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. Aragorn placed his hand on my shoulder as Elrond got to his feet; Legolas and Gimli walked beside Gandalf as we all followed the king through Helm's Deep.

In a dim corridor lit by flickering torches, Théoden pushed on a creaky wooden door and led us into a room furnished with many soft mattresses, pillows and blankets. Rain still poured heavily down outside of the fortress, spattering onto the glass panes of the room's single window. The king regarded it with lofty disdain.

"You may sleep here tonight," he told us. We each chose a mat, stretching out wearily. Théoden nodded before he bade us goodnight.

"Sweet dreams," he said kindly. "Don't dwell on the past, but envision a brighter future for Rohan… and Middle-earth."

----

I lay awake for a long time, listening to the steady patter of raindrops drumming on the window. The storm had waned to a gentle shower, and the sky was starting to clear. A patchy veil of mist half-covered the moon and stars.

"Isilden?" Aragorn's voice murmured beside me.

"Yes?" I whispered in reply. "What is it?"

The man's eyes gleamed brightly in the darkness as he stared at me and continued, "I was just thinking about what you said earlier, about not knowing what you really are. I think I may know."

"You do?" I asked excitedly. "Tell me!"

I could just see the smile on Aragorn's lips as he replied, "You're not an orc, and yet not an elf. You have some traits of both, but all of neither. You are torn between the two, with a foot in either world."

"I _know_ that," I said, more angrily than I meant to. "What's your point?"

"My point," Aragorn continued calmly, "is that you will never know what you are until you decide where your life will take you. Will Isilden loyally serve Lord Denethor, or will Snaga surrender to Saruman's tyranny? Only you can answer that. So what will it be?"

I thought, letting shreds of memories float through my head. I could feel an intense battle of wills boiling up, and struggled to quell it.

"I just don't know," I sighed dejectedly. "I was happy serving Lord Denethor, but I've sworn false allegiance to Saruman so many times. They both think I'm loyal to them. In order to follow Lord Denethor's wishes, I had to make Saruman believe I was his most trusted slave – and a commander of his horde. That meant I had to put myself under his control. Where does that leave me?"

"Hmmm," the man nodded thoughtfully. "Try listening to yourself when you speak. You refer to the Steward as 'Lord Denethor', and to the wizard as simply 'Saruman'. What does that tell you? Think about it."

With that, Aragorn turned over onto his side and yawned once; as his breaths slowed and deepened, I could tell he had fallen asleep. Sighing, I pondered his words. After a moment I realized that he had a point. I served the one I spoke of as lord. It was stupidly obvious.

_If only everything in life were that simple,_ I thought wistfully, as I plummeted into the dark clutches of dream-riddled slumber.

----

_I sprinted through Orthanc's dark corridors, with silver shafts of moonlight pooling upon the stone floor and spilling down the stairs. I was running up and down, vainly searching, and even more vainly trying to escape. For I was both hunter and hunted. My quarry was Elennar, and my predators were Saruman's evil minions._

_I raced up a stairway, almost feeling the creatures' hot breath on the back of my neck. I pounded on doors, but every one was locked. My heart thundered in my chest, as if it was fighting to break free of my ribs._

_Ducking into an open chamber I halted, leaning against the wall as I panted for breath. Wiping sweat from my dripping forehead, I cast my eye out warily for Elennar. _

_The room I was in was dark and pungent, the reeking blackness pressing in on me like a thick, foul blanket. No glimmer of moonlight pierced the gloom to aid me in my search, for there were no windows here._

_But there were eyes._

_Nearly a dozen rough, clawed hands seized my shoulders, and one clamped over my mouth, stifling my scream of terror. I struggled madly, but my captors outnumbered me six to one. They were too strong for me to fight off by myself. They soon had me bound tightly, and forced me to the floor._

_As the orcs all laughed wildly and jeered, a voice yelled out above my sobs, "We've got him! Lord Saruman, he's in here!"_

"_Excellent," thundered Saruman's deadly voice. "Where is he?"_

_I stared up in terror as the wizard approached, using the pointed end of his staff to lift my chin. I was forced to gaze into his eyes, which blazed with fury. He brought his face close to mine, so that our noses were only an inch apart. Spit flew into my face as he snarled, "No-one can escape me! You'll pay for your treachery!"_

_The orcs cheered cruelly, shoving me forward. I cried out in pain as I hit the floor. But Saruman lifted me up, gripping my shoulders with his sharp fingernails and shaking me forcefully. He shouted at me as he did so._

"_Let me go!" I screamed, writhing desperately in his grasp. _

_But Saruman persisted, now yelling strange things I didn't understand, in a voice that wasn't his._

"_Wake up, Isilden! You're dreaming. Wake up!"_

----

"Isilden!" Someone was shaking my shoulder. "Wake up!"

"No!" I cried, thrashing about half-consciously. "Let me go!"

"_Le olthar, Isilden,_" (You're dreaming, Isilden) the voice cried. "_Edro lle hin!_" (Open your eyes!)

I did, blinking and frowning at the one who had roused me. "Legolas! Thank goodness. Was I…?"

"Shouting in your sleep?" the elf finished. "Yes. We're riding to Orthanc soon. Are you ready?"

"Yes," I replied, rising. "I think so." Then I frowned as something struck me. "What were you saying to me, exactly?"

Legolas may have thought my question odd, judging by his expression, but he told me truthfully, "I said, 'You're dreaming, Isilden; open your eyes.'"

"In Elvish?" I asked.

Legolas nodded. "Why?"

"This may sound strange," I answered uneasily, "but when you spoke Elvish, I didn't understand a word you were saying."

Legolas' eyebrows were almost level with his hairline when he repeated, "You didn't understand it? How can that be? You understood it perfectly back at Helm's Deep. What happened?"

"I have no idea," I replied honestly.

"Do you remember anything happening beforehand that might be relevant to this?" Legolas asked me.

"No," I answered, shrugging.

Legolas frowned. "Try saying something in Elvish. Anything you like."

"_R- rin m- mani?_" (L- like wh-what?) I stammered, frowning at the sound of my own voice. Why was I stuttering? My tongue felt strange, flopping around in my mouth.

"What's happening?" I cried. "I _can_ speak Elvish, I know I can!"

"I know," Legolas replied calmly, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Maybe you're just under stress. A lot has happened to you in such a short time, and perhaps this is your body's way of reacting to it."

I nodded, still uncertain. "Maybe."

"Legolas?" Elrond's voice called. "Isilden?"

Legolas turned, bowing his head respectfully as the dark-haired elf strode into the room. "Lord Elrond. Did you rest well?"

"Well enough," Elrond replied. "And yourselves?"

We both answered in the affirmative, but I was lying through my teeth. Elrond smiled. "Good. Come with me if you're ready to leave."

Legolas started to follow his friend, but hung back to wait for me. I pretended to straighten my bedclothes, and reached slyly for something hidden under my pillow: a thin, sharp-edged knife. I tucked it underneath my tunic as I stood up. "Let's go."


	17. Vengeance and Victory

**Chapter Seventeen: Vengeance and Victory**

We followed Elrond out to the stables of Helm's Deep, where we joined our friends and selected a steed for the journey. I was a bit apprehensive, as my last encounter with horses had not ended well, but eventually Aragorn managed to convince his horse, a stallion called Brego, that I wasn't an enemy.

I clung tightly to the man's shoulders as we rode west. We and our companions – Elrond, Gandalf, Théoden, Legolas and Gimli – travelled with the morning sun shining upon our backs and the whispery breeze cooling our faces. Soon Orthanc reared up against the blue sky, and an unexpected sound reached my ears – laughter!

Wondering who it could be, I stared around Aragorn's torso at the source of the cheerful noise, and gasped in shock and delight. Merry and Pippin were seated casually atop a low wall, drinking deeply from tankards of ale and joking happily with each other.

Pippin turned in our direction, spotted us, and leapt to his feet, waving enthusiastically in greeting. Merry rose as well, bowed awkwardly and shouted, "Welcome, my lords… to Isengard!"

I sat up a little straighter, trying to look over Aragorn's shoulder. The man seemed to understand; slowing Brego, he allowed me to dismount and rush to my friends.

I climbed carefully down from the stallion's back, and splashed into several inches of water. Isengard had been flooded by something or someone – quite recently, it seemed. Regardless, I sloshed readily toward the hobbits; they both jumped down into the water, which came almost to their knees.

"Isilden!" cried Pippin. "You're alive!"

"Of course I am," I replied, laughing. "Would any other orc travel among men and elves?"

"You forgot the dwarf, laddie," Gimli said from behind me, in a rather disgruntled voice.

"Right," I nodded, hurriedly correcting myself. "Would any other orc travel among men, elves and a dwarf? I think not!"

"We thought you'd been killed," Merry told me. "After you left the tower that day, we figured you were as good as dead. How did you escape the horde this time?"

"I didn't," I answered. "I was a commander, remember? I couldn't just leave. They would have killed me. I had to go all the way to Helm's Deep."

"So how _did_ you survive?" Pippin asked.

"With a lot of luck," I replied. "And a little help from friends," I added, glancing back at Elrond and smiling. The elf smiled calmly back, his dark grey eyes twinkling.

Turning to face the hobbits again, I nearly jumped right out of my tunic. Someone was now standing behind Merry and Pippin – a very tall, very tree-like someone.

Bright yellow eyes regarded me dubiously from between thick, mossy eyebrows and a large, protruding nose. The tree-creature spoke in slow, rumbling tones.

"_Hoom!_ What have we here?"

I stared fearfully up at the creature before me, whose eyes were narrowed in mingled dislike and confusion. It took a step toward me; I leapt back from its outstretched arm, but not far enough. The creature fingered my tunic warily, frowning.

"You dress like a soldier of Gondor," he said slowly. I could tell that he didn't trust me one bit.

"Y- yes," I replied, stammering nervously. "I am a soldier of Gondor. Minas Tirith, to be exact. I serve the lord Denethor."

The tree-creature nodded again, still disbelieving. "But you are an orc."

"Well, I'm not _really_ an orc," I explained. "I was an elf, but then Saruman tried to turn me into an orc, and only got halfway done. It's quite an interesting story actually, ask anyone…"

The creature frowned, looking over my shoulder. "Ahh, young Master Gandalf," he said. "I'm glad you've come. I can master the wood and water, the stock and stone. But with the wizard lies the trouble, though his tower is tightly locked, with him inside."

"And there he must stay," Gandalf replied, nudging his mount forward. "Under your guard, Treebeard."

Treebeard nodded, and Gandalf gestured for me to back up slightly. I did so, and my gaze shifted over to Orthanc. The tower seemed deserted, but I knew better. Saruman was a coward.

"Show yourself," I whispered. My right hand carefully grasped the hilt of the dagger that was concealed under my tunic.

"Be careful," Elrond murmured to me. "Saruman has been defeated, but he's still dangerous."

"Then let's be done with it!" cried Gimli, gripping his axe. "I'll take his head!"

"No," said Gandalf firmly. "We need him alive. We need him to talk."

Just then Saruman himself appeared at the highest window of the tower. His white hair was mussed, and his robe was much dirtier than it had been when I had seen him last. I shuddered at the sound of his voice, and held my hidden weapon tighter.

"I know why you've come, Gandalf Greyhame," the wizard said icily. "You want information… I have some for you."

Saruman reached into his robe and drew out a large, black orb of stone. Gazing intently into it, he spoke for us all to hear. "Something festers in the heart of Middle-earth. The Eye has seen it; he knows what you do not. But I will tell you."

Lowering the dark sphere, the wizard smiled cruelly and finished, "You are all going to die. One by one it will destroy you all. There is no escape from the darkness."

"_LIAR!_"

That word tore from my throat in a scream. Charging forward, I gazed loathingly up at Saruman, whose eyes widened in shock.

"You!" he gasped. "Snaga, the mute orc. You can speak?"

"That's right," I snarled, eyes narrowing in rage. "But it's not Snaga anymore."

Saruman stared evilly down at me. "Who are you?"

"Isilden, be quiet!" Elrond whispered to me through clenched teeth. "Don't anger him!"

"My name is Isilden," I went on, ignoring the elf and tightening my already vicelike grip on my dagger. Blood trickled down my wrist from where my nails bit into my palm.

Saruman nodded. "You're very brave, Isilden," he told me. "But tell me, why am I a liar, as you so earnestly believe?"

"There _is_ an escape from the darkness," I snapped. "I escaped. You tried to make me one of your slaves, but you failed. I don't serve you. I never did. I serve Lord Denethor of Gondor."

"_Isilden!_" Aragorn hissed.

"You thought I was a mute," I said to the wizard. "It was a ruse. You made me a commander; I deserted the horde. But now I'm back."

Saruman scowled. "And your point is?"

"My point," I spat, "is that I'm here for revenge. I want what you stole from me."

"And what would that be?" the wizard inquired silkily.

"My life," I snapped. "My parents. My sister."

"Hmm," Saruman frowned. "Well, I'm afraid you're out of luck this time, Isilden. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Redness was slowly enveloping my sight; the fingernails of the hand that held the dagger were cutting into my palm. My next reply was an animal-like snarl. "Come down and fight me!"

"In case you haven't noticed," the wizard told me calmly, "the tower is locked, therefore I can't come down."

"Yes, you can," a voice rang out from behind Saruman. "I'll help you!"

The wizard half-turned, saying, "You fool, Grima. What – get back, you imbecile! I said get ba– _aaaaggghhhh!_"

A split-second later, Saruman was plunging to the ground, having fallen back from the window. Or had he been pushed?

Staring up at the window, I saw a man looking down at the ghastly scene, a satisfied smile on his lips. He had a sickly pale face framed by dark, greasy hair, and maliciously glittering eyes.

Swift as lightning, Legolas fired an arrow at the window. Fortunately for the man it was only a warning shot; it zipped harmlessly past his ear. The man hurriedly ducked away.

Saruman splashed into the water swirling around the base of the tower. He struggled upright, speaking to me in a hoarse but haughty voice, advancing steadily.

"I know what you do not. The change was not halted, only delayed… it has already begun again. Before this is finished, it will be complete. The truth is in the eye of the beholder, and seething in your heart. You know it. You will be mine. You will—"

He suddenly broke off, and would never continue. My dagger was protruding from his throat, buried halfway up its blade in his flesh.

Saruman fell limply back, stone dead. Silence reigned in the Ring of Isengard, until it was suddenly broken by Aragorn's voice.

"Isilden," he said in disbelief. "You…"

I merely nodded, my expression blank.

"Yes," I replied emotionlessly. "It's done. I've tasted revenge… it was sweet."

Then, slowly and deliberately, I moved toward my enemy's carcass. Gazing down into the wide, glassy eyes, I smiled to myself as I spat.

----

That evening there was a grand feast in King Théoden's hall. Every tankard and goblet was full to the brim; no plate was empty. The men of Rohan were talking and laughing as they celebrated their triumph.

Then Théoden rose to his feet, and the hall fell silent and stood with him. Raising his goblet, the king spoke to his people solemnly.

"Tonight," he said, "we remember those who gave their lives to defend this country. Hail to the victorious dead!"

I raised my glass, adding my voice to the chorus of "Hail!" that filled the room. Before I drank, however, I paused a moment to reflect on recent events, especially what I had done to Saruman. I had killed him. I had achieved my goal. Now, at last, my sister was avenged.


	18. For Better or For Worse

**Chapter Eighteen: For Better or For Worse**

I celebrated gaily with the men of Rohan, consoled in knowing that there was nothing to fear from Saruman anymore. He would never torment another innocent soul, or tear another family apart. His evil was fading from the land like a dark stain being washed from a white tunic. For that I was most grateful.

Gradually my attention turned to Merry and Pippin, who were doing a lively dance on a table, singing jovially. Ale slopped from their tankards as they waved them about. The dance appeared to involve a lot of kicking, and I noticed many Rohirrim wincing and clutching at their noses.

I laughed and clapped along with the rest as the hobbits' song concluded, my mood lightened considerably. Eru knew how I had needed the distraction.

----

The night air was still and cool. No breeze rustled the grass, nor blew away the filmy clouds draped over the white moon. I was almost asleep when I heard Merry's voice, an anxious whisper.

"Isilden?"

"What?" I murmured groggily. "Merry? Is something wrong?" I stared around the dark interior of the room that we shared with our comrades, trying to locate the hobbit.

My gaze swept over Legolas, staring blankly up at the ceiling, as elves did when they slept; Pippin, curled up on his mattress, snoring peacefully; and Merry, propped up on his elbows, gazing at me with wide, worried eyes.

"Isilden," Merry whispered again, "Th- there's something I have to tell you."

I sat upright, suddenly wide awake. "What?"

"It's about your sister," said Merry quietly.

"Elennar?" I gasped. "What… she's not—"

"No, no, it's not that," Merry told me. "Elennar's just fine. She's safe, hidden with the Ents in their forest. They'll take good care of her, trust me."

My heart leapt. My sister was still alive! "But why didn't you tell me before?"

"I didn't want to mention it in front of Saruman," the hobbit explained. "Just in case he got angry, you know."

I nodded. "But what about afterward? After I… after what I did? You could have told me on the way back here, or at the feast…"

"I guess I figured you had enough stuff to deal with then," Merry sighed. "I'm sorry. I should've told you much sooner."

"That's all right," I replied. "Better a little late than not at all."

Merry smiled. "So you're not mad?"

"No," I said. "Not at all. I'm just glad she's all right."

"So am I," the hobbit agreed, lying back down.

"Merry?" I whispered suddenly, before he could fall asleep again.

The hobbit sat up again. "What?"

"Do you think maybe we could go and get her?" I asked.

"You mean go to Fangorn Forest?" said Merry. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Isilden. What with you looking like an orc… besides, we need to get back to Minas Tirith. Lord Denethor will want to know what we've been doing all this time."

I nodded. "You're right. But the only things we found out were about the attack on Helm's Deep, and that's all over now. So we've got nothing to report."

"Yes, we do," the hobbit told me. "We can tell him Saruman's dead."

I nodded. "And speaking of Saruman, you never told me how you escaped. How could you ever get out without anyone seeing you?"

"With a lot of trouble, and a lot more luck," said Merry. "And, of course, a plan."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"It was Pippin's idea," my friend answered. "We had to wait until Saruman was through with us, after he came back from talking to the orcs."

"You didn't tell him anything, did you?"

Merry shook his head. "When Saruman left, Elennar helped to untie Pippin and I. Then we picked up that whip he'd been hitting us with – you know, the nine-stranded one – and cut it up with a piece of a broken sword. We tied all the strands together to make just one rope—"

"—and used it to climb down the tower?" I interrupted. "You must have read my mind; that was _exactly_ what I had been planning."

"Well, yes and no," Merry replied. "We had planned on doing that, but we never got the chance to."

"Did Saruman come back again?" I asked fearfully.

"We could hear him outside the door," the hobbit explained, "but then there was a huge crash, and the whole tower started to shake. Elennar was so scared; she thought we were all going to die."

"What happened?" I gasped. "What was it?"

"Ents," Merry replied.

"Ents?" I repeated. "The tree-shepherds?"

"That's what some people call them," the hobbit nodded. "They were led by Treebeard; you met him back at Orthanc. They were attacking the orcs that had stayed behind – good thing you were already gone. They were slaughtered. The orcs, I mean, not the Ents."

I nodded. "What exactly did the Ents do?"

"They broke the dam that was blocking the river Isen," Merry explained. "The whole place was flooded… all the orcs were drowned. Those that weren't trampled, anyway. The Ents suffered, too – lots of them were set on fire."

He yawned. "G'night," he murmured sleepily, closing his eyes.

"Good night," I whispered. "Pleasant dreams."

But Merry was already snoring.

----

I woke later that night, and found I couldn't drift off again. The room was silent, except for an occasional snore from the hobbits. No-one else seemed to be awake. I rose without a sound, inching toward the door.

A sudden snort made me turn, but it was only Pippin. The hobbit was still fast asleep. Sighing in relief, I pushed open the door and slipped out, wary of the creaking hinges.

Torches flickered in the gloomy hall, making weird patterns dance upon the stone walls.

I advanced softly, not wanting to wake anyone up. Feeling fairly unsure of myself, I glanced nervously over my shoulder as I walked.

Perhaps that was why I didn't see the elf in front of me until we collided.

I let out a yelp as my back struck the cold flagstones. The figure on top of me gasped and hurriedly scrambled away, whispering, "Oh my goodness, I'm sorry, I couldn't see you…"

"That's all right, sir," I replied softly, recognizing Elrond's voice. "What are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Isilden," Elrond whispered, helping me to my feet.

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd take a walk," I explained. "And you?"

"I've just had a dream," the elf told me. "It was terrible. Minas Tirith was burning, being attacked by orcs."

"That is terrible," I said with a shudder. "But maybe it was just a dream."

"No," Elrond disagreed, shaking his head firmly. "It wasn't. I've had dreams like that before, and all of them – _all_ of them – have come true. It was Foresight, another gift of mine. I see the future in my dreams."

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked.

Elrond thought. "Yes, there is. You can help me find the king. He must know of this."

"There's no need for that," Théoden's voice rang out behind us. "I'm right here."

Elrond and I both turned and bowed our heads to the king of Rohan, whose blue eyes held many questions in need of answering.

"Tell me, Lord Elrond," he said calmly, "what must I know? Is the news ill?"

"Théoden-King," the elf replied, "I have just had a vision; a glimpse of the Enemy's next plan. He will strike the city of Minas Tirith."

"Ill news indeed," said Théoden. Turning to me he ordered, "Summon Gandalf and Aragorn to my throne room. They need to know of this; together we all can take counsel. Lord Elrond?"

"Yes, sire?"

"Come with me. We have much to discuss."


	19. The Steward and the Slave

**Chapter Nineteen: The Steward and the Slave**

I rushed back down to the bedroom. Darting inside, I hurried over to Gandalf's side and shook his shoulder. He came awake almost at once, frowning up at me. "What is it?"

"King Théoden told me to wake you," I told him. "Something bad has happened. He wants you and Aragorn to come to his throne room immediately."

"What's wrong?" Gandalf asked, sitting up.

"Lord Elrond told me he's just seen what Sauron's planning to do next," I replied. "He's going to attack Minas Tirith."

"When?" demanded Aragorn's voice. I looked up and saw him staring intently down at me.

"I don't know. I think we'll talk more about it in the throne room."

"Then we'd best go," said Gandalf. "Come along."

We hurried down the passageway, but suddenly I halted, turning back slightly. A faint sound behind me had caught my attention – a stifled gasp of pain, followed by voices.

"Quiet! You're going to get us caught!"

"It's not my fault! I didn't see that crack in the floor! This was your idea, anyway!"

"Shut _up,_ Pip!"

Aragorn sighed, having obviously heard the voices as well. He turned back, calling down the hallway. "All right, gentlemen. If you're coming, then come."

Merry and Pippin hurried up the darkened hallway toward us, looking ashamed at being found out. Pippin was gingerly nursing a stubbed toe.

Gandalf shook his head, annoyed. "Meriadoc and Peregrin. I might have known."

"It was his idea!" Pippin protested.

"You were the one who squealed!" cried Merry.

"Quiet!" Aragorn shouted. "That's enough out of both of you. What are you doing here?"

"We want to know what's going on," said Merry defensively. "We want to help!"

"You can help by staying out of this," Aragorn told them. "Now go back to bed, both of you."

"_He's_ going!" cried Pippin, pointing at me. "Why can't we?"

"I was told to come by King Théoden," I replied.

"But–" Merry began. Aragorn shook his head.

"No."

"But we–"

"_No,_ Merry."

"But we have to go back anyway!" Pippin blurted out in a single breath. "Lord Denethor is waiting for us!"

Aragorn sighed, turning away. "Fine. Come on, then."

----

When we reached the throne room, it was clear that both Elrond and Théoden had been growing ever more impatient. They rose rather stiffly to greet us, though Elrond gave me a very brief smile.

"Finally," the king said rather curtly. "What kept you? Surely you didn't get lost?"

"We were held back, my lord," Gandalf explained.

"By whom?" Théoden asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A pair of eavesdroppers," Aragorn replied, moving aside to let Merry and Pippin come to the front. "They both insisted on accompanying us."

Elrond gave a disapproving sniff at the sight of the two hobbits. Théoden glanced at him before addressing the wizard. "Did they give you any clear reason as to why they should come?"

"They wanted to help us," Gandalf answered. "They believed that they should return to Minas Tirith, because of their loyalty to Lord Denethor."

"Very well." Théoden nodded, turning to the elf next to him. "Now, Lord Elrond, you were saying…?"

----

After a very long debate, a verdict was reached. Five of us would ride to the White City: Elrond, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin and I. By now the sun was shining, and the air was crisp and clear as my comrades and I made our way to the stables of Edoras.

Gandalf chose a pure white stallion to ride, and Elrond selected a dappled grey. Merry and Pippin clambered up behind the wizard, and I mounted behind the elf. Then Gandalf and Elrond spoke to their steeds.

"Run, Shadowfax," the wizard ordered. "Show us the meaning of haste!"

"_Noro lim, Vannarion!_" (Ride fast, Vannarion!) Elrond cried.

Both horses took off at a run, hurtling across the plains of Rohan. I had never ridden so fast before, and I flung my arms around Elrond's waist to keep from falling off. The elf glanced back at me, a slight smile playing on his lips. His look inquired in concern, "Will you be all right?"

I nodded, trying to fake my well-being. But my stomach was churning horribly, and I was very grateful that I hadn't had breakfast.

We rode east and south, following the White Mountains of Ered Nimrais. The journey took a little more than three days, as we had to stop occasionally to eat and sleep. But soon Minas Tirith stood tall against the horizon for a second time.

Boromir and Faramir were both waiting. As soon as we crossed the threshold, they came forth to greet us. Bowing their heads courteously to Elrond, they helped the two hobbits and I down from our mounts.

"So you all survived," said Boromir, smiling. "We were worried about you. But that's said and done, and no-one was seriously injured, I hope?"

"None of us," I replied. "But someone was badly wounded – killed, in fact."

"Oh?" Boromir's eyebrow lifted. "Who was that?"

I struggled to keep my voice free of emotion as I answered, "Saruman."

"Ah." Boromir nodded. "I see." He paused a moment and inquired softly, "Was it…?"

I nodded. Boromir's expression was unreadable, a combination of satisfaction, relief and something resembling pity. I didn't say a word. The silence was as thick as syrup.

"Well," Elrond said hesitantly, breaking the barrier of stillness around us, "I need to see your father, Boromir. It is extremely important. I fear your city will soon be under siege. Orcs from Mordor are joining with Sauron's other minions to lay siege to Minas Tirith. They'll be here within days."

Faramir nodded, turning slightly. "Come. My father is attending to other duties at the moment, but I'm sure he will listen to you."

We followed the brothers to Denethor's throne room. The Steward was seated upon his throne and speaking to someone; a short, dark-haired figure whose back was to us. Boromir coughed slightly to declare our presence.

Denethor paused and glanced up, nodding for us to enter and wait before continuing to address his guest.

"You say he was slain by an orc?" he asked.

"Yeth, thire," the other figure replied in an odd, lisping voice. "An orc in Gondorian clothing. He thlew him with a knife – thtabbed him in the throat. That wath after I thoved him out the window – Tharuman, not the orc."

"I see," Denethor said quietly. "And what happened then?"

"One of the elveth fired an arrow at me," the stranger explained. "It went thtraight by my ear; I think it wath only a warning thot. I moved away, and tripped over thomething on the floor. I landed right on my fathe, and knocked out about thix teeth, ath well ath hurting my jaw. That'th how I got thith lithp."

Denethor nodded. "And the orc?"

The stranger shrugged. "I haven't theen him thinthe."

"Did the orc ever mention his name?" the Steward wanted to know.

"Yeth," the stranger nodded. "He thaid hith name wath Ithilden."

"Isilden?" Denethor repeated softly. "Well, well…"

I saw his gaze move slowly back to where I stood, and our eyes met for a second. I suppressed a shudder, not quite knowing why.

Denethor nodded again to the stranger, standing up. "Thank you, Grima. You have been very helpful."

"Thank you, thire," Grima said with a polite bow. He turned to leave, and spotted me. I found myself staring into the face of a man I had seen only once before, right after he had pushed his master from a tower window. So, his name was Grima.

From the look in Grima's eyes, he probably thought I'd kill him as I had killed Saruman, if I got the chance. He stepped back a pace, as I remained where I was. But the Steward interrupted then.

"Come forward, Isilden," he called to me. "Don't be fooled," he assured Grima. "Beneath that orc-hide beats an elf's heart. You can trust him."

Grima nodded, but still regarded me suspiciously as I stepped toward Denethor, bowing my head in respect. The Steward smiled at me, apparently relieved. He must have been very worried, I thought. I wondered what he had been thinking of me, whether he thought I would desert him.

"Welcome back," he said calmly. "I was afraid you might have been slain. Have you anything to report?"

Remembering Elrond, I replied, "You're in danger, sire. The orcs are coming here next. They'll arrive in a few days, at the most."

The Steward's eyebrows arched. "How do you know of this?"

"Lord Elrond of Rivendell told me," I replied, glancing back over my shoulder at the elf. "He's here." I nodded to him, and he strode forward and spoke gravely.

"Lord Denethor, what Isilden says is indeed true. I witnessed the attack in a dream only nights ago, and my dreams never lie. Mordor is coming. Not only orcs, but also vast armies of men."

Denethor was silent, and the elf continued, "Minas Tirith alone cannot hold back so great an assault. You must call for aid. Light the Beacons; King Théoden would come, I know it. You are not alone in this fight, my lord."

Denethor did not reply immediately. After a moment's pause he nodded. "Yes. You are right, Lord Elrond. We cannot fight Mordor alone. I will summon Rohan."

Elrond nodded, satisfied. "Good."


	20. The Eye of the Beholder

**Chapter Twenty: The Eye of the Beholder**

The Steward stared over Elrond's shoulder at his sons. "Boromir, inform the guards that our beacon is to be lit immediately, and make sure that it is. Faramir, rally the soldiers. I want every man able to wield a sword to be sent to the armoury. Hurry!"

Both of Denethor's sons bowed and left. Elrond smiled, and I shivered with anticipation. I was finally going to fight on the right side of the battle. I would be an orc-soldier no more.

Denethor seemed to have read my mind. He smiled and said solemnly, "Isilden, I would gladly accept you in my army as a soldier, or even a ranking officer. Would you fight for me?"

I stared up at him, a fierce light in my eyes. "I'd fight to the death!"

"Very well," the Steward nodded. "But let's hope it doesn't come to that."

----

I knelt on the cool stone floor of Denethor's throne room, my head bowed, my body facing the throne where the Steward sat. Elrond, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin, Grima and Denethor's two sons watched as I took the oath.

"Here I so swear fealty and service to Gondor; in peace or war, in living or dying. From this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me." I sighed silently as I finished the pledge, leaning forward to kiss the ring on the man's outstretched hand.

Denethor smiled and spoke to me. "And I shall not forget it," he said, "nor fail to reward that which is given. Valour with honour, fealty with love… disloyalty with vengeance."

I stared up at the Steward, whose eyes were calm and kind. I could read his mind like a book: _But you won't fail me, I know._

I wouldn't fail. I would serve Gondor with all my strength, as long as I breathed. No matter how my spirit was put to the test, I vowed I would overcome.

I stood up slowly, a smile lighting up my face. Now I was truly a soldier of the White City. Gazing around at my companions, I saw that they were all smiling as well. Boromir seemed the most pleased; he came forward and shook my hand, saying, "Well done."

"Thank you," I replied, swelling with pride. I could feel a blush creeping up to my cheeks, and wondered what sort of strange hue my green skin was turning.

All at once I felt an odd itching sensation in my eyes, as if they were being gently pricked with tiny needles; my eyesight was slightly hazy. I blinked several times, trying to clear my vision, frowning in confusion.

"What in the world…?" I muttered.

"What is it?" Boromir asked in concern.

"I don't know…" I stared blearily up at him. "Something's wrong with my eyes. You've gone blurry."

"Let me take a look," Elrond volunteered, striding toward me. "Look at me…" He bent down so our faces were level, and stared intently into my eyes; our noses were almost touching. He frowned, his brow creasing. "Well, I don't see anything lodged there… try to move your eyes."

I swivelled my gaze left, right, up and down as the elf instructed. Elrond's own eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. I wondered uneasily what was wrong.

"Your eyes seem fine, at least from the outside," he concluded after a moment. "There's nothing wrong that I can see. But we'd better not take chances. Close your eyes," he ordered, and I did.

A sudden flash of light blazed through my eyelids, but the itchiness did not subside. Looking up, I saw Elrond still frowning.

"Well?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I can see you fine now, but it still hurts."

"Very odd," the elf murmured. "That has never happened before; with some extremely rare exceptions, what I heal gets healed immediately."

"Well, maybe it will go away if I wait long enough," I suggested.

"Maybe," Elrond nodded. He frowned at me for a few seconds more, and I noticed his eyes widen a little. He didn't say a word, but I knew something had troubled him.

"What's wrong?" I inquired.

Elrond shook his head dismissively. "Nothing… it's nothing. A trick of the light, that's all."

"What is?"

"I thought I saw your eyes change color for a moment," the elf answered. "But it can't have been."

"Right," I agreed, nodding. "If they didn't change color when I was transformed, they probably wouldn't now."

But deep down in my heart I wasn't so sure.

----

That night I lay between consciousness and dreams for what seemed like hours. I was only half-aware of my surroundings: the soft linen of my blanket, the scent of lavender in my pillow, the lullaby whispers of the wind in my ears. Thankfully, in this floating state, my stinging eyes evaded sensation.

My eyes. What had caused them to hurt so badly? And why now? This was undoubtedly the strangest thing I had ever experienced. I was sure nothing like this had ever happened before.

To take my mind off of the pain, which was starting to return now that I had remembered it, I let my mind free to wander. It roved hither and thither, sending me glimpses of my past, flittering around like a bee over meadow flowers.

A voice drifted unbidden into my head. The voice of a young girl, timid and pleading, that brought tears to my already stinging eyes. _"Tell my brother I love him."_ It was Elennar's voice.

I began to cry softly, still semiconscious. "She loves you. She loves you, Isilden. Oh, Elennar, I love you, too… I'll never forget. Please remember me." Tears poured down my face and soaked my pillow.

I barely noticed how the itch in my eyes faded, leaving only the huge ache in my heart.

----

I woke early the next morning feeling refreshed and eager to begin my first day as an official soldier of Gondor. I proudly donned a blue tunic over a chainmail shirt, smiling at the glittering silver threads that shaped the White Tree. I was also glad to notice that my eyes no longer hurt.

Humming cheerily to myself as I headed for the dining hall, I was hailed by Boromir and Elrond. Both gazed at my new tunic with pleased expressions.

"Ready for your first day as an official Gondorian?" the Steward's son asked.

"Ready as ever," I replied, smiling. "Do you think it suits me?" I gestured to my tunic.

"The blue really brings out your eyes," the elf told me. "And speaking of your eyes, how are they? Do they hurt anymore?"

"No," I answered happily. "The pain went away sometime last night."

"Good," Elrond smiled. "And hopefully it won't come back."

I nodded. "Shall we get some breakfast?"

The three of us entered the dining hall together, and made our way to the High Table that overlooked the others. Denethor smiled as we approached and sat down.

"Good morning," he greeted me. "You look splendid. How are your eyes?"

"They don't hurt anymore, I'm glad to say," I replied.

"Excellent," the Steward said with a nod and a smile. "So, which area of the guard do you think you'd like to join? There are many to choose from."

I pondered this answered, "I think I'd like to serve under one of your sons, but I can't decide which."

"Hmmm." Denethor nodded. "Well, that would leave you with… Isilden? Isilden, are you listening?"

I wasn't, for my eyes had suddenly begun to sting painfully for the second time. "Oh, not again," I moaned.

Elrond turned to me, saying, "Your eyes?"

I nodded, wincing in pain and shutting my eyes tightly. "It's worse than it was before. Last time it was just prickly; now it's – _ow!_" I cried. "Now it's like someone flicking hot coals into my eyes! _Argh!_"

"Painful," Elrond agreed, nodding. "Let me…" He placed his fingers gently against my closed eyelids, saying, "Could you please try to relax a bit? It's hard to heal someone when they're so tense."

I nodded, doing my best to obey him. This time there was no brief flash of light, but a steady flow instead. The burning didn't abate in the least.

"It's not working," I growled through teeth that were firmly clenched against the pain.

"You're not relaxing," Elrond told me calmly. "Help me out, all right? Don't think about the pain."

I imagined that I was a great eagle, gliding over mountains, with the sun on my back and the wind beneath my wings. Free to soar wherever I wanted. It seemed to work; the burning diminished after a while. I gave a sigh of relief as I opened my eyes.

Elrond was panting slightly for breath; his eyes were closed, and beads of sweat trickled down his face. He wiped his brow with his sleeve as he looked up.

"Well, that's about all I can do for now," he gasped. "Did it work?"

"It did," I noted gratefully. "Thank you." The pain in my eyes had receded, leaving nothing in its place.

But was it nothing? I frowned slightly, for instead of burning, my eyes now felt oddly numb. Elrond glanced at me in concern, saying, "Tell me it hasn't started up again. Look at me."

I did so, not knowing what to expect. But the elf's reaction was frightening; his eyes widened in horror, and he let out a yell that echoed around the hall, causing everyone to look up in alarm.

"_Merciful Valar!_"


	21. Help and Horror

**Chapter Twenty-One: Help and Horror**

"What?" I cried. "What's wrong?"

Elrond's face was the hue of sour milk; he was gaping at me with his mouth hanging open. He made a weird gurgling noise before recovering his voice enough to croak, "Your eyes!"

"What about them?" I asked fearfully.

"Look!" Elrond pushed his goblet of water toward me. I stared down into the rippling liquid, focusing intently on my reflection. I soon realized why the elf had cried out; my eyes, which moments before had been the color of the sky at twilight, were now a deep, blood red.

"No!" I screamed. "_No!_ This can't be happening!" Leaping to my feet, I dashed toward the door, blinded by hot tears of disbelief and anguish. Denethor stood up as well, calling after me.

"Isilden!" he cried. "Come back!"

I made myself deaf to the Steward's frantic calls. Shocked whispers from the other Gondorians drifted toward me as I hurtled blindly between tables and through the double doors.

"Look at him…"

"His eyes…"

"What happened?"

"No wonder Lord Elrond shouted…"

Bursting out into the sunlight, I didn't stop running until I reached the courtyard. Then I crumpled, sobbing and gasping, beneath the White Tree.

I squeezed my eyes shut to stem my tears, to little avail. Leaning against the Tree's smooth, pale bark, I tried to quell my body's incessant tremors, and finally succeeded.

Something small and soft brushed my cheek. I opened one eye and saw a delicate, milk-hued petal resting next to my nose. Gently I picked it up between thumb and forefinger and stared at it in silence.

Soon another petal landed on my head, followed by another and another. It was as if the Tree was weeping for me, shedding its petals instead of tears.

Automatically I reached up to rub the Tree's ivory bark, to run my fingers tenderly over the satiny surface, and suddenly felt disgusted with myself. What right did I have to contact something so pure and untainted? I felt as if I were contaminating the Tree merely by touching it. I jerked my hand away in shame.

Suddenly faint footsteps reached my ears, coupled with voices. I recognized their owners as Elrond, Gandalf and Denethor. I stared desperately around me for a place to hide; I didn't want to have to face anyone.

I remembered seeing that the rock beneath the courtyard was very roughly hewn, full of ledges and niches. I darted to the edge, bending down to look. There were many suitable cracks and ridges for me to use as hand- and footholds.

Swinging myself over the edge, I ducked out of sight just in time; my three pursuers entered the courtyard in a matter of moments. Not daring to look down, clinging grimly to the rough stone, I held my breath and listened.

"Where is he?" Elrond's voice asked. "I saw him run this way. He can't have gotten past us."

"If you hadn't shouted, Lord Elrond," Gandalf's voice replied, "he wouldn't have run off in the first place."

"Well, what would you have done?" Elrond retorted sharply. "One minute his eyes were blue as twilight, and the next they were like blood! That isn't something one sees every day, now, is it?"

"No," Gandalf's voice said quietly, "but—"

"Look," Denethor's voice interrupted. "The Tree – its flowers are wilting. There are petals all over the grass."

I shifted one hand and reached up to my head. There were still a few petals in my hair. Smiling to myself, I sighed at Gandalf's words.

"He's not here. If he doesn't want to be found, then let's not trouble him. Come on."

I waited until the three friends' footsteps had faded before I climbed up onto the mercifully solid courtyard floor. Getting carefully to my feet, I approached the White Tree a second time, but refrained from touching it now.

I plucked the petals gently from my hair and cast them onto the grass beside the Tree. Many more petals had fallen in my absence, I noticed. Sighing again, I left the courtyard in an uneasy silence.

----

Later on that day, I lay alone on my bed in a darkened chamber. The curtain was drawn over the window, blocking out noonday sunlight. I hadn't bothered to eat any dinner, so my stomach grumbled in complaint.

A knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts as a voice called from outside, "Isilden? May I come in?"

I sat up, staring dully into the blackness. "Who is it?"

"It's Lord Elrond," the voice replied. "I want to speak with you."

Heaving a sigh, I stood and started toward the door. "Come in, sire."

The door creaked open, and a ray of sunlight flowed into the room. Elrond was silhouetted in the doorway, one hand resting on the latch, the other holding a plate of food. The tempting smells of warm bread and roast pork floated seductively into my nostrils, and my mouth began to water.

"I didn't see you at dinner, so I thought you might be hungry," the elf told me, taking a few steps forward into the room. He set the tray carefully down on my bedside table as he spoke.

"I am," I replied, smiling. "Thank you."

Elrond nodded, striding over to the window and reaching for the curtain. I hurried forward, saying, "Sire, I'd prefer if you didn't, please…"

The elf hesitated, his hand outstretched; then he nodded understandingly and let his arm fall to his side. "All right."

"Why don't you sit down?" I invited, gesturing to my bed.

Elrond complied, sitting down beside me and speaking solemnly. "I know why your eyes were hurting you so badly, Isilden."

"You do?" I cried. "Why is it?"

"Do you remember what Saruman said to you at Orthanc?" the elf asked me.

"Before or after he was pushed out the window?"

"After that… right before he died."

I thought, letting my mind drift into the past. The Wizard's words chilled me as I replayed them in my head: "_I know what you do not. The change was not halted, only delayed… it has already begun again. Before this is finished, it will be complete. The truth is in the eye of the beholder…_"

"The truth is in the eye of the beholder?" I repeated aloud, frowning.

Elrond nodded. "That was one of the first things he took – your eyes."

"He cursed me," I murmured, as realization dawned. "That day… he put a spell on me."

Elrond shook his head. "He didn't curse you that day. It began long before that, on the day you became…" He hesitated, reluctant to finish the sentence.

"Just say it," I muttered bitterly. "When I became an orc."

"But not quite," the elf reminded me calmly. "You weren't fully bent to his will." He paused, frowning. "Your stomach sounds like a hobbit snoring. Eat."

I obliged; selecting a bun from the plate and cutting it in half with a knife that Elrond handed me, I spread the warm roll with pale yellow butter and took a bite. Elrond continued to speak as I ate.

"You told me that, while you were leaving Orthanc with the orcs, you found it hard to hear and breathe for a moment. Later on, you found that you neither understood Elvish, nor were able to converse in it, after speaking and comprehending it very well at Helm's Deep."

I swallowed my mouthful, saying, "How did you know?"

"Legolas told me," the elf replied calmly. "Yesterday you took the oath of fealty to Lord Denethor, and it was then that your eyes first began to irritate you. After my attempt to heal you, I saw your eyes briefly flash with red. It was a warning of what would soon come, I know that now.

"Then there was the… incident today at breakfast. I'm very sorry about what happened, and I wish I could have done more. If I had held on for just a bit longer, I might have…"

He broke off, and I saw tears shining in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It wasn't your fault," I said softly, brushing crumbs from my lip. "It's no-one's fault but _his._" I spat out the last word.

"Saruman," Elrond nodded gravely. "Yes. He's the cause of this."

I suddenly grew fearful. "Do you think this will continue?"

"I should think," Elrond said quietly, "that the answer is yes."

I stared at him, temporarily dumbstruck with horror. When I found my voice at last I whispered, "Can you help me?"

Elrond looked crestfallen. "No. I can't, nor can anyone else."

"So there's no hope?"

"I didn't say that," Elrond told me. "I merely said that I cannot help you. But you must have absolute faith in yourself if you want this to end."

"Of _course_ I want this to end!" I cried, leaping to my feet indignantly. "You can't possibly think I enjoy this! How would you feel?"

"You didn't let me finish," the elf said calmly. "Sit down and I'll explain."

I sighed, sinking back down onto my bed. "Go on."

"Think about the day you were captured," Elrond ordered me. "What stopped the transformation from being completed? What were you thinking while it happened?"

That was easy. "I was thinking about Elennar – my little sister."

Elrond nodded pensively. "And do you believe this could have saved you?"

"It could have," I replied. "Yes, I think it did." Then a thought occurred to me, and I added, "And the last time my eyes hurt, before they changed, the pain went away when I thought of her."

"Then that's what you must do," the elf said matter-of-factly. "The next time you feel that Saruman is trying to reclaim you, concentrate on your sister as you did before. You must not let him take you. Don't let him destroy everything you've accomplished."

I nodded, but suddenly began gasping for air. My heart had sped up its pace, thumping much harder and faster than it normally did. I couldn't breathe; I felt as if I had just run a mile in a matter of seconds.

"Help!" I choked, clutching frantically at my chest. "Sire, help me! He's back!"


	22. Fight and Foresight

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Fight and Foresight**

Elrond's eyes widened in horror. "Fight it, Isilden. Fight him! Think of Elennar!"

_Think of Elennar, _ I thought._ Yes. She loves you, Isilden. Remember that. She loves you, and you love her. Love will conquer._

I squeezed my eyes shut, summoning an image of my sister to the front of my mind. I memorized her face; her golden hair, fair skin and sapphire eyes. Her laughter was like the song of a brook babbling over the stones in its bed. Her smile could light up a dark room…

But suddenly Elennar's face in my mind's eye began to change, distorting and twisting, becoming lined and hoary, her soft, deep eyes darkening and hardening. She was turning into the one person I never wanted to see again.

Saruman's voice sliced through my mind like a knife. "Don't fight me. Give in to it. You can't hold on for long. It's only a matter of time."

"No!" I gasped, struggling to banish the horrible voice from my head and re-summon Elennar to me. "No! You won't… take… me!" My own voice sounded faraway, echoing in my ears, as though someone else were shouting from a long way off.

My sight was blurring; the dim shadows that lurked at its edges became bolder, and spread to envelope everything. Now another voice was shouting, calling my name from somewhere behind the darkness. _Isilden! Isilden…_

I couldn't hear or see anymore. The voices fell silent as the blackness consumed me. Screaming without a sound escaping my throat, I plunged into oblivion.

----

"Isilden… Isilden, wake up…"

I floundered in a grey haze, the voice flowing around me like a current. The ripples bore me up toward the pale promise of consciousness. I couldn't have fought if I'd wanted to.

I let myself be lifted, and sensation returned. As my eyes fluttered open, I saw three fuzzy shadows hovering over me. They slowly took form, and I found myself gazing up into the concerned faces of Elrond, Gandalf and Denethor.

The elf seemed to be the most shaken; his voice trembled audibly as he asked, "Are you all right, Isilden?"

"I think so," I replied weakly. "What happened?"

"You stopped breathing," Gandalf answered. "Elrond alerted us as soon as you blacked out. What were you two doing?"

"I was fighting against Saruman," I told him. "He was doing something to my heart… it started beating so fast, I just couldn't handle it. I tried to stop it, but…"

I trailed off, tears welling up in my eyes. Elrond gazed at me in quiet sympathy, his own eyes shining wetly. A look was shared between us, and I thought I heard his voice whisper sadly in some derelict corner of my mind: _Forgive me._

_It's not your fault,_ I thought miserably. _I didn't fight hard enough._

"But if he didn't just try to kill me, what does he want?" I asked out loud, not realizing I had really spoken until a few moments after the words tripped off my tongue.

"We don't know," Gandalf told me grimly. "What matters now is your safety. You must regain your strength, Isilden. Rest awhile."

I sank back down onto my pillows and sighed. "How long was I unconscious?"

"It can't have been more than a few minutes," Elrond replied. "I was with you the whole time."

"That was very considerate of you," I smiled. "Thank you." Then rage flashed through me, and I spoke angrily. "I hate this. I want it to end."

"We know," said Denethor kindly. "We're doing all we can to help."

"I know you are," I smiled. "Thank you for that."

The Steward nodded, and he and his two companions turned to leave. But suddenly an overwhelming urge hit me, and I called, "Lord Elrond?"

The elf turned back, faintly puzzled and slightly concerned. "Is there something you need? You're not sick, are you?"

"No," I told him, starting to get anxious about my rash impulse. "There's just, something I want to know."

"You two go on," Elrond told the others over his shoulder. "I'll catch up. What is it?" he asked, turning back to me again.

"Well… I was wondering…" I swallowed. "You said you could see the future, right?"

He nodded, and I went on, "Do you think you could look into my future? I want to know if I'll ever see my sister again, and whether or not Saruman will… take me."

Elrond's face became pensive for a moment, and he nodded slowly.

"I could," he said, "but it could be risky. You may find out things that are better left unknown."

"Then don't tell me those things," I replied.

Elrond looked hesitant, but nodded again. "Very well… look into my eyes."

I lifted my gaze to his calm grey eyes, and he stared intently back at me. Time slowed to a standstill…

For a moment nothing seemed to be happening, but soon the elf's eyes became oddly glassy. I found that I couldn't tear my gaze away from him, as if a mysterious force were locking us both this way.

Elrond's lips began moving, but no sound escaped them. Now emotions were flashing across his eyes: fear, despair, anger, hope… I began wondering dimly what the elf could be seeing. His lips were still moving mutely, but more intently now.

Suddenly there was a sharp flare of shock in Elrond's eyes; he blinked, breaking the spell. When he drew a breath again, it came in gasps, as if what he had just beheld had winded him.

The light returned to his eyes, but he would not meet my gaze for a while. I waited silently while he caught his breath and looked up at me, visibly shaken.

"What did you see?" I asked, startled to see him this way. "Is it bad?"

Elrond took a few deep breaths before he spoke. At length he answered, "I saw… many things. The siege… it will happen soon, very soon. No-one will see it coming.

"You will see friends again, and many foes will perish to your blade, some whom you know of old. A noble friend will fall…"

I sucked in my breath. "Who?"

Elrond shook his head and went on.

"The final conflict will come soon after. You will face enemies more terrible than you can ever imagine… but friends will be with you. When all hope is lost, something will happen, something great and terrible… something wonderful. And then…"

His voice faltered, and he looked down. I urged him to continue.

"What will happen? Is that all you saw? Tell me!"

"There was nothing else," said Elrond weakly. "Just… blackness."

I stared up at him, and he shuddered slightly and added, "Keep your sister in your heart at all times, Isilden. She may be your only hope."

----

I was under strict orders from Denethor not to do anything drastic until I had fully recovered. So, confined to my bed for several hours, I grew increasingly bored, and decided to practise exercising my mind.

Through my incarceration, I practised forming Elennar's being into something I could wear around my heart like a scarf. I mingled the scent of the wildflowers she loved, the sound of her laughter, and the feeling of her hand caressing my cheek. And the color blue, the same hue as our eyes. No… her eyes.

I wore this scarf of Elennar's spirit around my soul. Sight, sound, scent and sensation, woven into a shroud of hope and protection. It was like a suit of armour lined with silk, soft and strong.

I prayed fervently that it would serve to deflect Saruman's will. I smiled triumphantly to myself as I imagined the wizard stabbing at my new shield with a black sword, and seeing his weapon fall apart as it came in contact with the armour-scarf.

Suddenly another figure burst into the room. I identified him as Madril, the guard who had first mistaken my arrival in the White City for an orc invasion.

Madril was panting hard for breath; once he found his voice again, which took a short while, he gasped, "To arms! My lord Denethor calls you to fight!"

I knew why in an instant. Elrond's predictions were starting to come true already.

"They're here," I breathed. "The war has started."

"Come quickly!" cried Madril. "There isn't time!"

"I don't have a sword!" I protested. "It's in my bedroom…"

"Well, get it!" the guard almost shrieked. "And hurry!"

Nodding, I snatched up my blade as Madril and Grima ran from the room. Hurriedly I dashed outside, where I met a horrible sight.

As soon as I set foot past the threshold, I was swept up by a wave of soldiers, clad in gleaming armor. They were all rushing through the citadel, forcing me to move along with them. I was horribly reminded of my first escape from the orcs at Emyn Muil, so long ago now. Luckily I was among friends this time, and not foes.

Arrows and chunks of stone flew from two directions, slaying men and orcs alike. I froze in my tracks for a moment as a huge stone block landed exactly where I would have been if I had taken another step. I dodged around it and ran on, into the thick of the war.


	23. Another War is Waged

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Another War is Waged**

Glancing around, I saw Boromir being shoved along beside me. The man had a firm grip on his sword, and a determined light gleamed in his eyes. He seemed more than set to face our enemies. Well, if he could do this, I reasoned, then I could, too.

Boromir looked over at me, and I noted with a stab of queasiness that his face showed shock for a moment before recollection dawned upon him. When he recognized me, he gave me a brief smile.

"Have you seen Lord Denethor?" I asked, stumbling forward a few paces.

"No," Boromir replied. "Have you seen Gandalf?"

I shook my head. "Not since I woke up after I fainted."

"You fainted?" the man said, incredulous. "How? When?"

"It's a long story," I told him breathlessly. "A few hours ago, Lord Elrond was training me to defend myself against Saruman, and suddenly he attacked me, and I wasn't ready for it. I just blacked out."

"What happened then?"

"What do you mean?" I frowned. "What did I do, or…?"

"What did Saruman do to you?"

I fell silent for a moment; I hadn't thought of that. "I don't know, and I don't think I want to find out."

A high, blood-curdling shriek sounded not far off. I yelled in pain, clamping my hands over my ears. "What is that?"

"A Nazgûl!" cried Boromir. "Look out!"

I ducked hurriedly as a dark shape swooped down toward me, its talons barely missing my head. But I heard a scream as another fighter was snatched up, borne high into space, and dropped. There was a sickening _thud_ as the soldier met his doom.

Suddenly there was another flood of figures pressing against me. It was not men this time, but orcs, many thousands of them. I drew a deep breath, mentally trying to ready myself for the fight.

"Send these foul beasts into the abyss!" a voice shouted. I looked up to see Gandalf galloping toward me on his white stallion, his staff upraised. "Drive them back!"

_Gladly,_ I thought, raising my sword. I swung it at the orc nearest me, and swiftly separated its torso from its legs. More approached, and I cut them down. But I wasn't ready for what happened next, when Pippin screamed.

"_Lord Denethor!_"

Boromir's eyes widened in horror. "Father! No!" he cried.

He whirled around to where Pippin's voice had come from; I helped him hack a path through the advancing horde. Up and up we struggled, to the courtyard of the city. There I saw something I would never forget in all the years to come.

Denethor lay in a crumpled heap next to the withered White Tree, with a semicircle of hungry-looking orcs gazing down at him. A pool of blood was slowly spreading beneath him. Merry and Pippin stood before the Steward, their blades gleaming in the sunlight as they prepared to defend him with their lives.

I whispered in Boromir's ear as we drew nearer to the grisly scene. He obediently moved away from me as I pulled my tunic up over my head and tucked it safely beneath my chainmail shirt. Then I stepped silently up to my comrades from behind, and held my sword, point downward, above Denethor's back.

The Steward stared up at me in mute horror. The orcs all leered cruelly, and the two hobbits turned toward me. The younger of the two brandished his sword in a trembling hand and yelled, "Come on – make my day!"

I didn't move, and Pippin yelled again, "You touch him and you'll never see noon! I mean it!"

"So kill him!" Merry hissed. "What are you waiting for?"

"Not yet," Pippin replied in an undertone. "If I do, the others will be on Lord Denethor like wolves on a deer. He wouldn't stand a chance."

"You're right," Merry sighed. "We can't do this ourselves. We're outnumbered fifteen to one at least." I saw the hope drain from his face as he added softly, "Well, Pip? Ready to die fighting?"

"With you, I'm set for anything," Pippin said gravely. "Let's take them together."

"Ready when you are," the other replied.

I had no intention of harming any of my friends, and I stood in silence, gazing at the orcs across from me. They crept forward as one, slowly tightening the half-ring around the hobbits and the fallen Steward. I pointed my sword toward Merry, drew it back, and swung.

My plan worked; both hobbits moved to parry my blade, and I let them force me to the ground. Merry knelt on my chest while Pippin pressed his sword against my throat and roared, "One move and you're dead!"

"Kill him now!" cried Merry. "He's not going anywhere!"

"It's me!" I hissed urgently to my friends. "It's me, Isilden! _T- t- telin le_–" (I'm here to–) I stuttered. With a sigh of exasperation, I switched to the Common Tongue. "I'm here to help you."

The hobbit's eyes widened in shock. "But you almost killed Lord Denethor!"

"I was saving him," I whispered. "I had to get through to you somehow. I'd never have hurt him, or either of you. If you let me up, I can hold them off while you call Lord Elrond. We'll need him."

"Get up yourself," Pippin told me. "Make it look like you're fighting us."

Nodding, I held Merry's collar gently but firmly and pretended to fling him aside like a rag doll as I climbed laboriously to my feet. I gave a few grunts and growls of exertion for added effect. Pippin, having tumbled off me while I rose, instantly rushed to Merry's side, crying his friend's name.

I stood and faced the orcs, who were still grinning wickedly at the defenseless Steward who lay at my feet. I still had my sword in my hand, and Denethor was still gazing up at me in terrified silence.

_Don't worry,_ I thought. _I won't let them have their way, I promise._

I stepped forward a pace, and one of the orcs broke free of the group and charged toward me. I slew him in one blow, lopping off his head as casually as a child might pluck the bloom from a dandelion. I watched silently as my adversary fell to the ground in two pieces.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Merry and Pippin darting away, and breathed a silent sigh of relief. The orcs' eyes were all trained upon me.

After a few moments another orc dared to challenge me. I let him step between Denethor and I; he slipped in the growing pool of red liquid from the Steward's body, and fell back, meeting the same fate as his cohort.

Several more moments passed; no-one else moved. The only noise was made by Denethor, moaning below me. It was a piteous sound, and my heart gave a twinge. But then the orcs began to whisper, one voice rising above the others: "Let's rush him! Keehee, we can take him easy!"

I recognized the speaker's gravelly laugh, but his name escaped me. I began to grow nervous; I wasn't sure if I could handle all of the orcs at once. Another voice, this one also darkly familiar, agreed with the first.

"Maybe yer right, Dugum. He can't pick us off if we move together, can he? No!" the orc answered himself. "On my command, we charge!"

"We what?" asked an oddly squeaky voice from the rear of the group.

"Charge," the second orc repeated snappily. "No! Not _now,_ ya fool! Get back here!"

But the squeaky-voiced orc had already leapt forward, a piercing cry emanating from his throat. He held two daggers, one in each hand, which sawed the air as his arms moved like twin windmills. I held my sword ready, counting mutely. _Three, two, one…_

"_Eeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—!_"

The orc's shriek was suddenly cut short as my blade ripped through his throat, spattering the sky with ebony drops that glistened like tears of darkness. Before my victim even hit the ground, the orc I assumed to be their commander gave a shout.

"Chaaarrrrge!"

I was ready for them. As the orcs surged forward, I swung my sword in wide arcs, slashing and hacking at my enemies. I fought until all but one were slain. That one was the commander. Now I saw him in full light, I recognized him instantly as Krân, my first captor. The one who had delivered me to my doom.

"You," I snarled.

Krân frowned at me. "You look familiar. Have I seen you before?"

"Yes," I nodded. "You have. I didn't look like this then, though… my hair was lighter, my skin was lighter, my eyes were blue."

Krân's scowl deepened, and I went on calmly, "It was a rainy night; it was just you and me. I was running, you were following… and then you caught me. You spat in my face before you dragged me back to the tower."

The orc's brow wrinkled. "What's yer name?"

"Didn't I tell you?" I asked smoothly. "Oh, yes – I couldn't, could I? Because, you see, just after I came out of that filthy pit, your master knew something was… different about me. He got angry, you may remember, at the way I wouldn't swear allegiance to him."

Krân's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "You're the mute – Snaga!"

Beaming, I nodded. "Bravo! Yes, I am the mute. Or who they thought was a mute. I was faking it the whole time. And my name isn't Snaga anymore, Krân…"

As I spoke, I had been steadily advancing, my sword extended. As I voiced the end of the last sentence, the tip of the blade slid softly between Krân's ribs.

"My name is Isilden. Say it?"

"Your name is Isilden," Krân gasped, staring at me through rapidly clouding eyes.

"Good boy," I nodded, smiling grimly as the orc went limp. "Now, lie down and play dead."


	24. In Living or Dying

**Chapter Twenty-Four: In Living or Dying**

"Isilden…"

The hoarse whisper came from behind me. I turned around and saw Denethor struggling to stand, his whole body shaking with the effort.

I dropped my sword and hurried to his side, kneeling on the blood-soaked stone of the courtyard as I placed a tender hand on the Steward's trembling shoulder.

"Easy, sire," I murmured. "I'm right here. Don't try to get up. Merry and Pippin went to get help; Lord Elrond will be here in no time. You'll be all right, you'll see…"

"Isilden?" Denethor whispered again, in a voice dredged from the very depths of his being.

"Yes?" I said softly. "I'm here." Gazing into the man's frightened face, I saw that his skin was deathly white; even his lips were pale. Every faint word, every shallow breath, seemed to cost him a little more energy.

Denethor spoke faintly and fearfully. "Are… are you going… to bury me?"

Not knowing why, I felt tears fill my eyes. I had seen death before, had dealt it out, but nothing could have prepared me for this. This was beyond anything I had ever experienced. What could I say?

"No," I replied, trying to smile, and feeling tears run down my cheeks. "I'm going to look after you. You'll be all right, sire…"

"You don't… have to lie," Denethor whispered. "If I'm… going to die, just… say so."

His hand found mine, as did his eyes. He was weeping as well, ever so softly. "I'm… sorry," he gasped.

"For what?" I asked, gently brushing the tears from his face with the back of my hand.

"Everything," the man replied with great difficulty. "For trying to… kill you when we… met, and… for all the… things I couldn't… teach you. I should… have been more… like a… father to you… when you needed it… most."

He stopped to recover his breath, and his gaze shifted to someone behind me. "Lord… Elrond?"

I turned my head and saw the elf hurrying toward us, with Boromir, Faramir, Merry and Pippin in his wake. Elrond knelt next to me, speaking softly to the Steward. "My lord, you're badly wounded. Let me see what they did to you."

Denethor nodded, uncurling his body and lying on his back. His eyes followed the elf's hands as they moved carefully over his torso, examining the steadily bleeding gash across the man's stomach. I heard Elrond draw a slow breath, and wondered how serious it was.

"How… bad is it?" Denethor asked. "Can you… heal it?"

Elrond's voice trembled audibly. "I'll do my best, sire. Just relax…"

Rolling up his sleeves, the elf placed his hands gently on the gaping wound and began murmuring inaudibly in Sindarin. Denethor's eyes flickered shut, and Boromir gasped in alarm.

Elrond didn't appear to be concerned, however, and kept up his task. The Steward's blood appeared to seep back into his body as the elf muttered under his breath. Faramir's eyes were wide, almost unblinking, glistening with tears yet unshed.

Finally Elrond lifted his hands and drew a deep breath. I saw that his body was shaking now, and so was his voice. "Th- there… that should do it."

"Is he alive?" Boromir whispered fearfully.

Elrond nodded. "Yes, but unconscious. He lost a lot of blood, and not all of it was replenished. Only time will tell whether he will make it now."

Faramir drew a tremulous breath that poorly concealed a sob. Boromir placed a kindly hand on his shoulder. Merry stared up at the elf and asked, "What do we do now?"

"We take him to the House of Healing," Elrond answered without looking at him. "Once he's out of danger, we'll keep fighting. He will not perish in vain, if it comes to that."

He carefully lifted the Steward's limp body, and Denethor's two sons moved forward automatically to assist him. As the three companions bore Denethor away, I sighed in sorrow.

I pulled my tunic from under my chainmail and put it on again, retrieved my sword from where it lay next to Krân's carcass, and addressed the hobbits.

"Come on," I said. "We shouldn't stay here."

Merry and Pippin nodded, and followed me as I turned to leave the courtyard. But a moment later I halted in surprise, for the sound of a horn was ringing clearly through the air.

"What is that?" Pippin asked.

"I don't know," I replied. Moving toward the edge of the courtyard, I stared down and gasped in amazement at what I beheld.

Moving in a perfect, unbroken line, advancing toward the orcs on the Pelennor Fields, was a great army on horses. It halted after a moment, and then one rider broke free and rode before all the others. I tried to hear what he was yelling, but I couldn't quite make it out.

Then several thousand voices rose in a roar that would have woken (or perhaps broken) a stone troll. They yelled one word, and charged.

"_DEEEEEAAAAAAATH!_"

The orcs seemed to have been caught unprepared; they fell swiftly before the storm of horsemen. But I saw some riders fall to the weapons of the orcs as well.

"Come on!" I cried again, waving my sword. "Don't just stand there! Let's get back to the battle!"

Nodding, Merry and Pippin hurried to keep up with me as I lunged back into the fray, slaying orcs two and three at a time. Together my friends and I beat our foes back, and we moved further and further into the heart of the citadel.

"Look!" shouted Merry, pointing suddenly. "What's that?"

I followed the hobbit's outstretched finger, and stared in disbelief at what it indicated. From the south came what looked like a tidal wave of eerie green, led by three figures that ran before them.

The green wave surged and flowed around them and past them, and straight toward the astonished-looking orcs. When the flood passed, the orcs it had overwhelmed lay dead on the field.

"What are they?" I wondered aloud.

"Who knows?" Pippin replied, shrugging. "Whatever they are, they look like they're on our side!"

Heartened by this knowledge, I brandished my blade with renewed vigor, remarking nonchalantly, "It's nice to have friends, isn't it?"

We fought on, as did the green whatever-they-were and the horsemen below on the field. Merry and Pippin had been swept away by the throng of Gondorian soldiers, and I prayed they were all right.

I should have been more careful to watch where I was going, because suddenly I ran straight into someone who was very inconveniently standing just in front of me.

"Aragorn!" I gasped, staring up from my newly-established spread-eagled position on the ground.

The man nodded, pulling me carefully upright. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I replied breathlessly.

"I just saw Lord Denethor in the House of Healing," said Aragorn. "What happened?"

"So much has happened," I whispered. "Too much… Are you sure you want to know it all?"

"Yes," the man nodded. "Tell me everything."

I did. As I finished my tale, Aragorn was silent. He turned, gazing out to where the green army was gathered on the Pelennor Fields. A lone figure standing before them was waving to Aragorn.

"I'll be right back," he told me, starting to walk away and speaking over his shoulder. "Wait here."

I did, watching as the distant figure of Aragorn approached the green horde outside the city. I couldn't make out any words, but I assumed that there was some conversation going on.

After a moment, the multitude of green figures softly faded, blown away like smoke on the breeze.

----

A few minutes later Aragorn and Legolas returned. I was still waiting patiently. I was amazed that Legolas didn't balk when he saw my crimson eyes. Aragorn had obviously explained my situation to h the elf, for he gazed sympathetically at me.

"Come," said Aragorn. "We have much to do."

"What?" I asked, hurrying along in my friend's wake.

"We must see to Lord Denethor," the man replied solemnly. "Hurry!"

I already was, but I didn't reply. I saved my breath for running.

A moment later I stopped in my tracks. A horrible feeling had come over me that I couldn't explain, and I swayed unsteadily for a moment. In that instant, something became suddenly all too clear.

Legolas frowned at me. "Isilden? Isilden… are you all right?"

I didn't answer as I carefully wiped orc blood off the sword I still held. Then, slowly and deliberately, I drew the keen edge of the blade across my left palm. A thin gash appeared in my green skin, and liquid welled from beneath the slit tissue. I held my breath as its color was confirmed…

…bright, ruby-red.

I breathed again, and cleaned my sword a second time before I replaced it in its sheath. All was well, it seemed. Well, not exactly all, but at least my fears hadn't been true.

But Aragorn frowned at me, his eyebrows knitting. Taking my wrist, he gazed fixedly at the gash in my palm, not saying a word.

Blood was dripping down my wrist now. He let it slide onto his fingertip; then, holding his hand so his palm faced downward, he watched as the crimson bead formed a drop, which quivered for a brief moment before it fell.

When the drop hit the ground a second later, it no longer looked red.

Shaking, I held my hand out as Aragorn had. The blood that seeped from the cut, having nowhere else to go, dripped steadily down to mingle with the drop on the ground.

I watched in mute horror as the black pool of my blood on the white stone slowly grew.


	25. The Last Battle

**Chapter Twenty-Five: The Last Battle**

Aragorn gazed down at me, his voice fraught with pity. "Isilden, I'm sorry…"

I said nothing as tears poured down my face. The man put his arms tenderly around me, and I wept into his tunic, sobs of despair wracking my body. Aragorn held me gently until at last my tears had dried. Then, without another word spoken, we continued to the House of Healing.

----

I stood silently at Denethor's bedside. Aragorn, Elrond, Théoden, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf and the Steward's sons all stood nearby. Denethor's face was so terribly, sickly pale, many thought he was really dead. The only thing confirming his life was the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. And it was slight.

Boromir was silent as he placed his hand on his father's cheek, which was the color of parchment. But I saw the tears that streaked his face as he wept. Faramir laid a hand on his elder brother's trembling shoulder, tears flowing down his face as well.

It was Elrond who at last broke the silence that hung around us. "We have done all we can for him. I fear a greater evil is amassing. Mordor is preparing for the final war, that will ultimately decide the fate of our earth."

"Then we must defend ourselves," said Aragorn. "Gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."

"We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms," Théoden told him.

"Not for ourselves," Elrond countered, "but perhaps for two little hobbits, somewhere in the darkness. It is in their hands that all of our hope lies."

Boromir nodded, his tears drying on his face. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes."

----

We came to Mordor a few hours later, after riding out from Minas Tirith. I rode behind Elrond on his steed, next to Aragorn. Legions of men from Rohan and Gondor rode behind us.

As we rode, I could feel my head pounding. I blamed it on the air, which was warming to an uncomfortable level. Elrond glanced at me over his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I lied. "Just a headache – it's the heat."

Elrond frowned slightly, but seemed to accept my alibi, and turned to gaze ahead.

The Black Gate of Mordor was a formidable sight, towering hundreds of feet high and spanning even wider. Even with an army behind me, I was terrified. This was it. The final battle.

The White Tree embroidered upon my tunic gleamed in the fiery light coming from somewhere behind the Gate. Everything was deadly silent; not even a breeze disturbed the dust. The Gate was shut and locked tight. Not even an ant could have walked through it.

Aragorn spurred his mount forward. Boromir, Faramir, Elrond, Gandalf, Théoden, Legolas and Gimli followed. Aragorn looked every inch the King he was fated to be; the White Tree upon his chest flashing in the sunlight, his sword gleaming as he unsheathed it. In a loud voice he shouted to the air: "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth, that justice may be done upon him!"

For a moment there was nothing but silence, and then the Gate creaked open…

A lone rider on a dark, armored horse galloped out toward us. The rider was also clothed in shades of ebony, and a helm of black metal concealed most of its face. The only thing that was visible was its mouth, which was contorted in a mocking, yellow-toothed grin.

"I am the Mouth of Sauron," it said in a low voice. "My liege, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome. Is there any in this rabble with authority to treat with me?"

"We do not come to negotiate with Sauron," Elrond spoke up icily. "You may tell your 'liege' that the army of Mordor is to disband, and that he is to depart this land for ever."

The Mouth of Sauron sneered. "I remember you, Half-breed. Ah, yes… the spawn of Elwing, abandoned at your birth even by your own father. Noble heritage, indeed."

Elrond's eyes narrowed, and his fist clenched upon the hilt of his sword so hard that his knuckles whitened. He did not speak again.

The Mouth of Sauron gazed around him, and his eyes settled on me. "Well, how peculiar – an orc, riding in the company of Elves and Men. Are you aware that you are riding side-by-side with your enemies, orc?"

I remained silent, but my mouth twisted itself into a grimace of hatred. The Mouth of Sauron spoke again to me. "Have you no tongue in your head? Whose side are you on?"

I spat out my words like venom. "The furthest side from the likes of you."

The Mouth of Sauron, still smiling blandly, shook his finger at me and made a _tsk, tsk_ sound with his tongue, chastising me as though I were an ill-behaved child. "My, my, aren't you being a naughty little boy? Turning on your creator, and bearing the Gondorian standard? Sauron deals most mercilessly with traitors and turncoats. He will devise a fitting punishment for you."

He then turned to Aragorn, addressing him coldly. "Ah, Isildur's Heir. The last of a ragged house, long bereft of lordship. More is required to make a King than a simple broken sword."

At that remark, something in me that seemed to have been tensing steadily, finally snapped. Whipping my sword from its sheath, I drew it back and swung. The Mouth of Sauron was slain before he could draw another breath; his head thudded to the ground and lay there unheeded.

I looked up as a horn blew somewhere before them, and a shadow crept over the horizon.

It seemed as though all of Mordor was gathered on the threshold; thousands of orcs were joined by massive trolls and other foul beasts.

But worst of all was the Eye. Lidless, flaming, it stared unwaveringly at us, piercing my very soul with its gaze.

"Pull back!" Aragorn yelled. "Pull back!"

Elrond turned his horse with the others to follow Aragorn as he rode swiftly away from the Gate. We rejoined the mass of soldiers, and Aragorn rode before us, yelling as he did.

"Hold your ground! Hold your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers!" he cried. "I see fear in your eyes, and so can you, no doubt, in mine. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is acting despite the fear. There may come a day when it fails; when all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire. But it is not this day!"

My heart leapt as Aragorn continued, "Men of the West, fear no darkness! By all that you hold dear upon this earth, stand! This day shall be a sword day… a red day… ere the sun rises!"

Thousands of naked swords shone in the sunlight, and the light of the Eye. The legions of Mordor were all around us, pressing in on us. Silence reigned once more, as the dull pounding in my head intensified. Aragorn slowly strode forward, staring silently up at the Eye.

Then the stillness was broken by his voice, a whisper.

"For Frodo."

With that, he leapt forward with a yell. Scrambling down from the back of Elrond's horse, I rushed to follow him. Merry and Pippin ran alongside me, and we were soon overwhelmed by our own forces as the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan dove into battle.

I yelled wildly at the orcs as I cut them down, hacking and slashing with unbridled rage. Many of them died hearing cries of "That's for my parents!" "That's for Lord Denethor!" and the one I used most often, "That's for Elennar!"

"Good for you," Aragorn panted, coming up beside me. With his sword, he left another orc with a very brief headache. "_Elendil!_"

Despite the constant drumming in my head, I battled on. Blood splattered my tunic, partially obliterating the White Tree. Our forces beat the orcs back bravely, but it seemed we were beginning to lose the fight. And the pain in my head – oh, the pain!

My brain felt as if someone was using it like a blacksmith's iron, heating it red-hot and pummeling it with a hammer. I thought my head was ready to crack. Heedless of everything around me, I fell to the ground, eyes closed, clutching at my scalp, my nails digging into my skin. The pain grew greater… greater…

…and stopped.

When I opened my eyes again, my vision was veiled in red. All I could hear were the steady thumps of my heart and the sound of my breaths whooshing to and from my lungs. But then… there was a voice.

"_Whom do you serve?_" it hissed.

I heard myself reply in a blank monotone.

"Saruman."

"_Good,_" the voice praised me. "_What is your duty?_"

I lifted my bloodstained sword as I spoke one word.

"Kill."

The crimson mist parted like a curtain, and I saw before me an elf. He stood motionless, his sword hanging in its sheath at his side, gazing silently at something. I neither knew nor cared what. My task was clear, clearer now than it had ever been, than it would ever be.

I stepped forward a pace, and the elf did not move. Another, and my sword was aimed for his back. A third, and the cloak that swept back from his shoulders was tickling my face. I was close enough, I thought.

If I had been any closer, I would have heard his whispers.

"Come on… come on… any second now…"

I brushed aside the cloak that whipped against my face, raising my sword in a steady hand. I could almost smell the elf's blood pulsing through his body, and savored the sweet thought of my first taste of it. Smiling in silent triumph, I licked my lips. He would never see it coming.

But neither did I.

I was blasted off my feet by some massive blow, though there was no-one near enough to strike me. Pulsing red and black shapes flooded my sight. I felt as though my soul was being skinned. Layers of me peeled back and screamed away in the maelstrom that was my new world.

Red-hot fire devoured me. This was pain beyond pain; it felt like being immersed in molten metal and being told it was icy water. I was screaming, a toneless, senseless wail that threatened to deafen me. I would have welcomed it, just to escape. I longed for oblivion.

But I couldn't escape. Not until it was over.

My limited sight was dimming. My heart thudded ever louder in my ears, but gradually it softened and faded. Now other sounds were taking its place. Voices. They tumbled over one another in a contest to be the loudest, and one easily won. It was a cry that sliced through my numbing mind like a silver knife before flashing into the all-consuming black.

"_ISILDEN!_"


	26. Renewal and Reunion

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Renewal and Reunion**

Was I dead?

I lay in a velvety void of foggy grey. Darker shapes swirled around me, their voices hushed, whispering into my ears.

"Poor wretch. That must have been terrible for him, all of it. No-one should have to go through what he did."

"Yes. Can you imagine what it could have felt like?"

"I try not to."

I sensed a ripple of movement somewhere nearby, and the second voice spoke again. "I was ordered to give him this. Lady Arwen made it at her father's request."

Through some breach in the velvet wall that surrounded me, I caught a faint whiff of wildflowers.

Something soft settled over me, and the voice went on, "We'd better call Lord Elrond, and let him know how Isilden's doing. He'll want to know all about it, I'm certain."

"Yes, let's," replied the first voice.

The dim figures receded, and I sighed. I tried to move, to find out what lay on my body, but I could not. The thing, whatever it was, brushed gently against my cheek like silk… almost like a soft hand.

"Isilden…"

The voice was familiar, though I couldn't name the speaker immediately. The shadow hovered near me, and I felt a hand stroke my brow as his voice murmured, "Wake up, Isilden…"

At last I opened my eyes, and was blinded by dazzling light. Blinking, I stared at the person standing at the side of the bed I lay in, and gasped.

"Lord Elrond!"

I marveled at the sound of my own voice as it issued from my throat. No longer the harsh rasp I had grown so accustomed to, it was now the long-forgotten voice of my old self. Snaga was no more.

Elrond smiled. "Yes, Isilden, I'm here. And you're lucky to be here, too."

I nodded. But a horrible recollection struck me, and I cried, "Oh, Lord Elrond, I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" the elf frowned.

"I almost killed you!" I cried, the words stumbling and tumbling from my mouth as I spoke in a rush. "Back at the Black Gate, sir, don't you remember it? I was there, and you were there, and I had my sword out, and… and…" I faltered.

Elrond nodded. "You don't need to finish that sentence. I remember what happened. Do you really wish to dwell on those memories?"

"No," I admitted. "I guess not."

A strand of hair fell across my nose, where I couldn't quite see it through either eye. I reached up to brush it away, and let out a yelp of shock. My hands weren't mine! They were smooth and fair-skinned, like those of a human… or an elf!

"It's me!" I cried. "It's really me!"

Elrond laughed. "I know, Isilden."

"Do you have a mirror?" I asked excitedly.

The elf's smile broadened. "You don't need one. Your hair is gold, your skin is fair, and your eyes are a most lovely shade of blue."

I couldn't help but whoop in joy. Elrond laughed again. "Isn't it wonderful? You've been yourself ever since the battle ended, almost a week ago."

That sobered me up considerably. "A week? I've been unconscious for a week?"

Elrond nodded. "It's been a very long week, I must say. When I saw you lying on the ground behind me, I thought at first that you had died. You had some very serious burns, and those took a long time to heal. But that's said and done, and you're alive and well. Safe and sound."

I nodded. "So it's all over?"

"Not quite," the elf told me solemnly. "There is a great deal of mending to be done now, of broken bones, broken lives, and broken hearts. We must pick up the pieces of our old lives, and do our best to carry on." He sighed. "But that can be more difficult for some than others."

I nodded, frowning as something hit me. "You knew all of this would happen, didn't you? You saw it. You saw Lord Denethor almost dying, and everything that happened at the Black Gate. You knew I would become an orc. Why didn't you tell me in the first place?"

Elrond now looked ashamed.

"I wanted to protect you," he said. "I feared that if I had told you that Saruman would be able to control you even after his death, you would have tried to kill yourself, just to be rid of the pain that was to come."

"You knew I'd try to kill you?" I gasped.

"Yes," Elrond nodded. "I saw that, too. You saw me standing before you, and attempted to slay me when I didn't move. I didn't move because I was waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For the end. For Sauron's fall, and the last wave of his might that would finish off his minions forever. All but you."

"But… why not me?" I asked. "I was an orc, too. When that… force hit me, it was worse than anything I've ever felt before. I thought becoming what I was had been painful, but that was nothing. Returning to what I had been before that – that was so terrible, I wanted to die. For the longest time, I thought I really was going to."

"But you didn't," Elrond smiled. "There was still something else inside you that saved you then, as it saved you long before. Take a guess."

I thought, and the answer came immediately. "Love! Elennar's love!"

"Yes," Elrond beamed. "Your sister's love saved you. If it hadn't been for her, none of that would ever have happened. You would never have met Aragorn and the Fellowship, and thus would never have come here, to Minas Tirith. If you hadn't traveled here, you would never have met Lord Denethor, and would never have been sent back to Orthanc. And if you had never gone back to Orthanc, well…"

He turned as the door to the chamber we were in creaked open. Three figures came in, two supporting the third. My face lit up as I recognized them. It was Denethor, supported by Boromir and Faramir. All three were healthy-looking, their eyes bright, and they were all smiling.

Denethor stepped away from his sons and stood steadily on his own. He strode toward me, beaming, and I bowed my head. "Sire, you're alive!"

"As are you," the Steward nodded. "How do you feel?"

"I've never felt better," I replied honestly. "And yourself?"

"I'll be all right," the man smiled. He glanced down, remarking, "This is pretty… where did you get it?"

I followed his gaze, and saw that Denethor was talking about a blanket I lay under. It was made of sapphire-colored cloth, smooth and silky to the touch. Silver embroidery along one edge read in a smooth flowing script: _Meleth naa Ten'oio._ (Love is Forever)

"My daughter made it," Elrond informed us. "She's a very skilled seamstress."

"So _that's_ who the Healers were talking about earlier," I realized. "They said that 'Lady Arwen made it, at her father's request'."

Elrond nodded. "You're absolutely right."

Peering around my friends' bodies, I caught sight of Legolas striding into the room. The elf wore a white tunic and a fine silver circlet.

Elrond rose to greet him, saying, "Legolas, good to see you. We were just admiring Arwen's needlecraft…" He indicated the blanket.

Legolas smiled. As he moved forward, I saw that he carried a small figure in his arms.

My throat immediately constricted. He was holding a young elf-child, whose arms hung limply down from her body. Her eyes were wide open and glassy, staring up at the ceiling; I noted with a grateful sigh the rising and falling of her small chest as she breathed. Although I couldn't see all of her, I knew who it was in an instant.

Elennar.

Legolas carefully laid my sister down on the bed. She squirmed in her sleep, turning in my direction. I gazed lovingly at her, caressing her cheek with my hand as tears of joy flowed down my face.

After a few moments Elennar stirred and awoke. She blinked, her eyes widening to take in her surroundings. When she saw me, a smile made her face glow from the inside out. It was like watching a flower opening…

"Isilden?" she whispered. "Is it really you?"

"Yes," I replied, gently gathering her into my arms. "It's me, _a'maeler_." (beloved one)

Our eyes met for a moment, and I saw my face mirrored in hers; golden hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. We were one and the same.

"Why are you crying?" Elennar asked me.

I sniffed. "I'm crying because I'm so happy. I'm alive, and you're alive, and I know everything's going to be better. We're all going to be okay."


	27. The King and the Knight

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: The King and the Knight**

Elennar smiled, putting her arms around me as she pressed her face against my shirt. A moment later she looked up again and told me, "You smell like flowers."

My mind flew back to a day long past and almost forgotten. When an orc held a little girl in her arms as she breathed in the scent of his tunic and whispered those same words.

Glancing silently up at Denethor, I saw a slight smile playing on his lips. Something tugged at my heart, and I knew exactly what I had to say.

"Elennar," I said quietly, "do you remember when Merry and Pippin were brought to Saruman's tower? There was an orc with them…"

"That was no orc," Elennar cut in. "That was you."

I gasped. "How did you know? Did Merry or Pippin tell you?"

"No," Elennar said sincerely, shaking her head. "I just knew." Then her eyes grew somewhat pained. "But… why didn't you just tell me when you were there?"

My eyes stung with tears of guilt as I replied, "I didn't think you'd understand… I didn't know you knew. Why didn't you let me know?"

"I didn't think _you'd_ understand," Elennar confessed.

"Forgive my interruption, my lords," said a voice by the door. A servant was poking his head into the room. "I'm here to inform you that the coronation of the King is taking place in the courtyard, immediately."

"Thank you," said Denethor, nodding. "You may go."

The servant bowed and hurried away. The Steward rose, and spoke to all of us. "We'd better hurry. This is an event that no-one, I'm sure, will want to miss."

----

The courtyard was full of people when we reached it. Gondorians politely moved aside to let us by. I found myself next to a tall, slim elf-woman in a pale green dress. Her fair face was framed by a curtain of wavy, dark brown hair, and her deep blue eyes sparkled as she smiled at me. I bowed my head in respect, noticing Elrond on the woman's other side.

Once we all found a place, humans and elves alike, we turned to look up at a flight of stairs, on which stood Aragorn and Gandalf. The former was clad in kingly attire, standing with his back to the crowd; the wizard was facing the courtyard, and held a winged silver crown in his hands, which were poised above Aragorn's head.

He brought it down in a slow, deliberate movement, so that it rested gently upon Aragorn's brow. When he spoke, his words were loud and clear.

"Now come the days of the King," said the wizard to the people in the courtyard. "May they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!"

Aragorn drew a deep breath and turned, and the citizens of Gondor raised a mighty cheer. Even the White Tree was no longer withered, but had put forth many white blossoms, as if it were dressing up for the joyous occasion. The cheers died away when the King spoke, a smile upon his lips.

"This day does not belong to one man," he said, "but to all. Let us rebuild our world together, and share in peace."

The Gondorians cheered again, and Aragorn stepped forward through the crowd, singing as he walked. The Gondorians all bowed their heads as he passed them.

"_Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien… Sinome maruvan, ar Hildinyar, tenn' Ambar-metta!_" (Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I have come. In this place I shall abide, and my heirs, until the world's ending.)

He stopped not far from me, in front of Legolas. The King placed his hands on his friend's shoulders and said quietly, "_Hannon-le._" (Thank you.)

Legolas only smiled, glancing furtively to his right, where Elrond stood holding a banner emblazoned with the White Tree. He moved it aside, and I saw Aragorn's face light up in delight. The woman who stood next to me stepped out from behind the standard, her eyes shining.

The woman lowered her face, but Aragorn lifted her chin and met her eyes. A few moments passed silently, and then Aragorn swept the woman into his arms and kissed her passionately as the Gondorians all applauded.

I glanced to my left, and saw that Elrond was weeping openly, but smiling. The woman must have been dear to him, I thought. He smiled as the woman embraced the King, laughing.

After a short while the King and his Queen pulled away slightly and walked forward, pausing right in front of me. I could feel the King's gaze boring into my soul as he smiled and said, "Isilden, would you please kneel." It wasn't a question; it was a command.

I dropped to my knees and bowed my head, hearing the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath. The weapon in question was then placed, flat side down, upon my shoulder as Aragorn spoke quietly to me, words I couldn't quite hear.

The sword was moved to my other shoulder as the King continued to speak, and at last spoke for all to hear. "Arise, Sir Isilden, Knight of Gondor."

Feeling a sudden thrill, I climbed to my feet, a smile spreading across my lips. The people of Gondor were all cheering. Elrond nodded to me, smiling broadly, and mouthed the words, "Well done."

----

That evening, I lay on my bed alongside Elennar, absorbed in a conversation about our experiences through the past several weeks. I had been rather reluctant at first, not wanting to dredge up any memories that might hurt my sister.

But contrary to my expectations, she had insisted on the subject, with the reasoning that talking about all of our old scars would help them to fade faster. Surprisingly, she was right.

"What did becoming an orc feel like?" Elennar asked from her curled-up position in my lap.

"I couldn't really feel very much of it," I replied. "Basically, it felt like being shoved into a big pit full of mud, and being stabbed and slashed at for a long time. That's pretty much what they did to me."

"Why didn't you change completely?"

I smiled slightly to myself as I said, "There's a very special person whom I still need to thank for that. This person was in my mind all through that time, and it was because of her that I kept my soul, and my identity. Try to guess who it was."

I couldn't help but laugh at how Elennar's little face scrunched up in concentration as she tried to come up with an answer. At last she gave up and sighed, "Tell me."

"Are you sure you don't know?" I asked, smiling even more broadly. "I'll give you a few hints: She's very young, she's very pretty, and very, very special to her big brother. Her name has seven letters, and the first one is an E."

Elennar's eyes widened in surprise. "_Me_?" she gasped.

"That's right," I beamed at her. "I was thinking of you the whole time. You saved me from becoming one of Saruman's slaves. You are the one I owe my life to."

Reaching down, I fingered a corner of the blanket we lay on, the one made for me by Elrond's daughter. "Do you know where I got this?"

Elennar shook her head. "Where?"

"Queen Arwen made it for me," I answered. "She made it based on something I told her father, Lord Elrond. The color of it – that's the same color as your eyes. It feels silky when you touch it; that reminds me of how your hand felt when we were together in Orthanc, and you wiped away my tears and told me not to cry. And if you smell it, it smells like flowers. And I know how much you love flowers."

Elennar nodded as she traced the silver embroidery along one edge with her fingertip. "Love is forever," she read aloud. "That's pretty."

"And it's true," I told her, folding my arms gently around her body. "Love never fails. You and I are living proof of that. I never stopped thinking about you, and I bet you were always remembering me."

Elennar nodded. "I never forgot you for a second." She rested her head wearily against my chest. "I love you, Isilden," she murmured.

"I love you, too, Elennar," I smiled. "You look tired. Maybe you should get some sleep."

"I'm not tired," my sister protested, stifling a huge yawn.

I smiled to myself. "All right, if you say so."

I began humming a vaguely familiar tune. Once I remembered the words, I sang softly:

"Once you had gold, once you had silver,

Then came the rains, out of the blue.

Ever and always, always and ever.

Time gave both darkness and dreams to you.

Now you can see, spring becomes autumn,

Leaves become gold, falling from view.

Ever and always, always and ever.

No-one can promise a dream come true,

Time gave both darkness and dreams to you…"

As I sang, I began to realize that the words I was uttering were more true to me than my sister, particularly the last line of each verse. When I had become an orc, I had thought my world was to be in darkness forever. But in the end, it was my thoughts and dreams of Elennar that had pulled me through.

"What is the dark; shadows around you,

Why not take heart in the new day?

Ever and always, always and ever.

No-one can promise a dream for you,

Time gave both darkness and dreams to you."

Glancing down, I saw my sister gazing silently up at me, a smile upon her lips. Her eyes were glazed, as she was sound asleep. I laid her down carefully, so as not to disturb her.

"Sweet dreams," I whispered fondly, allowing my own eyes to cloud over. "I love you."

But only the silence replied.


	28. Love and Light

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Love and Light**

The next day was gloriously bright. My spirit donned a pair of wings as soon as I woke to Elennar's voice in my ear. "Isilden, get up! We have company!"

Blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the open window of my bedroom, I sat up, spotted the figure at the foot of my bed, and scrambled hurriedly to my feet. "Lord Denethor! I didn't hear you come in… how are you?"

The Steward smiled calmly. "I'm fine, thank you. And yourself?"

"Feeling wonderful," I answered. "Is there something you need?"

"I wanted to discuss something with you… both of you," he said. "First of all, Isilden – about the oath you took a week or so ago. You've held up your end of the bargain brilliantly, and now I believe that it's time I held up mine.

"You've shown outstanding fealty and valour, and I wish to make sure you are rewarded accordingly," smiled Denethor. "And your sister will have a part in this as well."

"A part in what?" I frowned.

Denethor's smile now held a secret he seemed eager to reveal. "Remember the payment I promised to give in return for your actions in my service – fealty with love, valour with honour. You have already been honoured with knighthood, and now I'm here to see that the first balance is preserved."

"What do you mean?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.

"I mean," replied Denethor, his eyes twinkling, "that I want to ask you something. I recall you telling me that you lost your parents in an orc attack, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," I said, my throat tightening at the memory, and my hand tightening on Elennar's shoulder.

Denethor glanced at me in concern before moving on. "As soon as I heard that, I felt that something had to be done. Do you remember what I told you when I was injured in battle?"

I nodded. "You told me that you were sorry you weren't more like a father to me. But I don't see what—"

"Don't you?" Denethor said softly. "I want to give you back what you lost, or at least a part of it. I know that I will never be able to replace your parents, but I still feel… if you want me to, of course…"

In that instant, I knew exactly what the man was going to say, and blurted out my decision before he could say another word.

"Oh, sir! Do you really mean that? Of course I'd be glad to be your son!"

Denethor laughed. "Well, that took care of itself, didn't it?"

Elennar's eyes were wide and hopeful. "Does that mean I'll be your daughter?"

Denethor beamed at her. "Yes, it certainly does. And now, instead of one brother, you'll have three. My two sons, Boromir and Faramir, will be your brothers, as well as Isilden."

I smiled as Elennar gazed adoringly up at the Steward and said, "I love you, Ada."

Denethor smiled as well, but I saw the tears in his eyes. Elennar stared at him in concern. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," the Steward replied softly. "It's just been so long since I've heard the words 'I love you' aimed in my direction…"

"Don't Boromir and Faramir…?" I began.

Denethor shook his head sadly. "Very rarely."

"But they're your sons."

"They are grown men."

"Well, they should still let you know that they care about you," I said hotly.

"How am I to know that they do?" Denethor asked quietly.

"I know they do," I told him solemnly. "When we were visiting you in the House of Healing, just before we rode to Mordor, your sons were both standing by your bedside… and they both were crying. They were crying for you."

"Don't do that," the Steward murmured.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Try to convince me that I am what I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

"Boromir would never weep," Denethor sighed. "Least of all for me. Faramir, perhaps, but not Boromir."

"Well, he did!" I cried. "Ask him yourself!"

In the pause before Denethor's next words, I thought I heard footsteps approaching.

"Stop it," he whispered. "Just stop."

"No."

Denethor gazed sadly back at me. "Isilden…"

There was a creak as the door opened, and Boromir strode into the room, speaking to his father. He spoke only one word: "Father."

Denethor glanced up as another figure followed Boromir into the room; it was the Steward's younger son, Faramir.

"Boromir," Denethor said softly. "Faramir…"

"We heard the whole thing," said Boromir.

"We're here to make amends," Faramir added.

The Steward wept quietly as his sons placed their hands gently upon his shoulders. He put his arms around them in a fond, fatherly embrace.

"We do love you, Father," Faramir said solemnly.

"We both do," Boromir nodded.

"We _all_ do," I told him, joining my new brothers.

"I love you, too," Denethor replied, smiling through his tears. "Thank you… my children."

He stood up, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Shall we go down to breakfast?"

----

We entered the dining hall, and took seats at the High Table. The King and Queen were not yet present; everyone rose to their feet as the royal couple strode into the chamber. As soon as they both were seated, the meal began.

My father, brothers, sister and I laughed and chatted as though the debate of a few minutes ago had never occurred. Boromir joked with Faramir and I.

"I'll have to get used to having three younger siblings now," he was saying.

I snorted indignantly. "Who are you calling young?"

"Why, you, little brother."

"_Little?_" I cried. "Hah! I'm older than you by far!"

"Oh?" Boromir raised an eyebrow. "I'm forty-three. And you?"

I smirked triumphantly. "Ninety-five."

"I see," Boromir nodded sagely. Then with a grin, he turned to the Steward. "Don't you feel young again, Father?"

Denethor returned the smile. "Slightly. But I'm willing to bet that Isilden's first idea of a father would be someone a bit older than himself."

I laughed. "Very true."

Then I sobered a little and murmured, "But… I was never really sure I'd have a father again, considering… what happened."

Denethor gazed sympathetically down at me, and Boromir squeezed my shoulder. I sighed, remembering the talk Elennar and I had shared the previous evening. Discussing my scars had helped them to heal at least a little. Perhaps I could hurry the process along some more.

"If you could go back in time and change one thing that's happened," I said to my kin, "what would it be?"

Boromir sipped at his glass of water before replying, "I would have fought harder against the Ring. Maybe then the Fellowship wouldn't have broken."

"I would have been kinder to you, Faramir," said Denethor, gazing down at his son with tear-filled eyes. "I should have treated you better, more like you deserve to be treated. I'll show no more favouritism between you and your siblings. You'll all receive the respect and love that you deserve."

Faramir smiled, his eyes moist. "I would have tried harder to be the son you wanted me to be."

Denethor wept openly as he wrapped his arms around his second son, whispering in his ear. Faramir did the same, and they held the embrace for a few tender moments.

"Your turn, Isilden," the Steward told me over his son's shoulder.

I drew a deep breath. "I would never have let Elennar out of my sight. I would have set her free the day we were captured, not waited until I had to go back. And even then, I didn't help her. But I could have. I could have killed Saruman _before_ the battle at Helm's Deep. He was just standing there! Why didn't I?"

"I know why," said a soft voice in my ear. I turned my head and saw Gandalf standing behind me, his eyes twinkling.

"You were listening?" I asked.

The wizard nodded, smiling. "Yes. I believe I can answer your question – you didn't kill Saruman when you first wanted to, because you feared for your sister. You didn't want to scar her young heart by exposing her to a cold-blooded murder."

"But…" I frowned as a memory flittered to the front of my mind. "But she'd already seen murder! I killed two orcs the day we were captured, and she was right beside me. How would killing Saruman have differed?"

"Because," Gandalf said reflectively, "it wasn't you she would have seen killing Saruman, but the orc that she believed you to be… Snaga, was it?"

I nodded. "But after it was over, she told me she knew it was me; she was just scared to admit it."

"Maybe. But that didn't occur to you then, did it? I stand by what I said before, Isilden. Also, killing a human is much different than killing orcs, no matter the amount of evil."

I nodded again. "You're right. Thank you, Gandalf."

"You're welcome," the wizard smiled. "I hope I've been of assistance."

"You have," I smiled.

Gandalf nodded respectfully before moving away. I watched him go, feeling as though a weight had been lifted off my heart. I felt I could breathe a little easier. The scars were mending.

Finishing our meal, the five of us parted ways outside the dining hall. My father and brothers walked down a corridor to the right, while Elennar and I headed out to the courtyard.

It was a beautiful morning; the sun generously gave out her light and warmth, and birds called out greetings from above. A sweet breeze cooled the air, playing with our hair as it sighed past. I breathed deep and remarked to Elennar, "Isn't it lovely out?"

Elennar nodded. "Not too hot, not too cool. Just right."

"Just right," I echoed, as we sat on the lush grass beneath the shady White Tree. "Yes, it's perfect." And it was – both that day, and my life as a whole. I now had more than I could ever want, or ever had wanted.

Looking back on the past several weeks of my life, I realized that my plunge into darkness had taught me more than I ever expected it to. I had learned how to live, how to fight, and how to kill, all with help from my friends and new family.

But most of all, I learned to appreciate what I had, when I had it; for many things I took for granted might have been lost forever. My parents, my sister… and the light. I had totally lost the light, if only for a moment. And who would have thought that more darkness would bring it back? Not me.

Some say that ignorance is bliss; I somewhat agree. My unawareness of what an orc's life is like gave me a false sense of security, a feeling that "it could never happen to me". But it had, and I had lived, miraculously.

And now that I knew how it felt, from safe on the other side of the darkness, I was even more blissful than before. While I had been in the light, I had indeed loved it. But somehow I had even more appreciated the view from the dark, from the other side.

**The End**


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